


chamomile, rose water, and other unlikely intoxicants

by callmearcturus



Series: The Year King and the Alchemist [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Consensual Servitude, Dirk is Prince and Jake signs up to be a Handmaiden, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Massage, Royalty AU, a game attempt at Dominance Through Subservience, dirk's gonna learn that the hard way, jake is made of guile and good looks and fathomless want, now actually 100 percent complete, off the cuff jamfic, this 'off the cuff jamfic' sure did grow a plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-11-02 02:39:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 86,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10935246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus
Summary: "I do swear by Skaia's guiding light to eschew ambition and direction to serve in the holy retinue. I will lay my head in the safety of the bower and pay penance in thought and deed. For the King of All Winters and the Undying Prince, I will provide succor and balm, and yield my being to ease the burden he carries for us all."An off-the-cuff jamfic for the Strilondes discord that spun rapidly out of control. In which Dirk plays the role of resigned god-prince of Skaia, locked in a twisted version of the Year King fable. His life is a sorry routine until one year, he receives a very bold, strange offering from the heir to House Harley, Jake.A story about cycles, and how to break them, and the patterns left in the scattered pieces afterward.





	1. chamomile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off: this is just a jam fic. meaning it's live-written in chat for an audience. it's just for fun, has no plan or outline, and is not beta'ed. each segment is written in 1-3 hours.
> 
> i'm just backing this one up on the AO3 because, idk, I think there's some fun ideas here? who knows.
> 
>  **ETA 06/29/2017:** Rewritten and touched up to correct upcoming continuity errors and just to reinforce some things.

In the Kingdom of Skaia, the penitent's offering day is upon you.

There are many strange traditions and demands wrought into your rule over Skaia, the minutia of life that in turns leaves you exhausted or just with a sour taste in your mouth, but offering day is one of your least favorite. What started as a one-time event at the end of a festival stuck around like an unwanted guest until it turned into a regular event. If you'd had the foresight, you might've tried to invent some way to stop it.

You are never so lucky, and so find yourself on autumnal equinox dressed in your full regalia and sitting upon your throne in the grand hall, looking out over the various representatives of Skaia. There's is quite a crowd come to see you, a veritible rogue's gallery of influence for the kingdom, each person laden with gifts for their Prince.

As much as doing this chafes at you, it's necessary, and you know it. Half the year has slipped by, and come winter, you will have to take up your crown and go out into the woods. Outside the walls of Skaia, the shadows grow teeth, pressing in on your small kingdom from all sides. It is your responsibility to go out to meet them and turn them back.

Such a task leaves many Skaians feeling beholden to you. Apparently making you their eternal Prince is not enough, and an advisor once suggested this ceremony be added to the Skaian calendar to help them cope with their grief and gratitiude.

So here you are, trying not to look too out of your comfort zone as the court recorder announced each penitent and their gift.

From the Botanists Guild, a dark haired girl steps forward to the long table to place her offering: this year, a wide binding of flowering black iris and silverleaf.

From the Forge, you get yet another very ornate sword that you know from a glance will find its place up on a wall, not in any serious swordsperson’s hand.

From the city’s best jeweler, a new crown is laid out upon a velvet pillow. From a distance, it's looks very ornate, lightweight threads of blue silver spun into an intricate tiara. You would admit if pressed that it matches the collar around your neck, the real symbol of your royal position, very well. But you've never looked forward to the specific times when you needed to wear a crown.

The ceremony continues for what feels like hours. Four barrels of blackberry wine. A gleaming perfect violin with hand-painted details along the body. Five bundles of midnight purple silk. The gifts come in opulent droves, and you wonder how much is out of genuine desire to please you (the violin-maker, certainly) or to grandstand against their peers (a cage of glittering hummingbirds, why did the aviary think you’d like that?).

The penitent sent from the Alchemy Guild is not the same as last year. There is some familiarity in his features, though: he has enough of her handsome jaw that you assume this newcomer is one of the Master Alchemist's grandchildren. Hopefull he is simply filling in as he comes of age and nothing's happened to the matriarch of House Harley. As much as this day vexes you, you always liked to see whatever weird curiosities she brought you, like a boy eager to open his Candlenight's gift from a rich, distant aunt.

It would be a show of potential favoritism to ask after her wellbeing. Instead, you hold your tongue as the young man steps forward, smile calm and clear. Conspicuously, he is carrying nothing, no obvious gift in sight.

“Penitent Jacob English, hailing from the House Harley and the Alchemy Guild,” is announced.

He’s a full thirty feet away from you, but his eyes are vivid green in the candle light. He bows deeply, showing the back of his neck before straightening.

“Your hands are empty,” you note in a level tone.

“My hands are the offering, Your Majesty,” he says with a grin, holding both out, palms up, fingers lightly curled. Immediately there is a murmur behind him.

“Are they.” You can’t imagine you’re being mocked… There is a clear-eyed earnestness to the penitent's manner.

He bows his head again. "It's not unheard of, to offer services to the Enduring Throne instead of luxuries. This day, the Harley family offers respite and relaxation to His Majesty, administered by my hands." His grin is blinding and cocksure. “A skilled swordsman and keeper of our protectorate might benefit from a massage of the shoulders and wrists.”

It’s a lucky thing that the discussion in the hall grows. It gives you time to sort through the sheer audacity and strangeness and charm this alchemist is offering.

The penitent keeps his head bowed, but not enough you can’t see his gaze on you over the rim of his spectacles. The gleam in his eyes is alchemic in of itself, hot metal green.

Your fingers twitch against the arms of your chair. Even if your mind is spinning from the offer, you know this script by heart, and as the chatter softens, you say, “Your house always gives generously, and I’m grateful for their place in Skaia’s walls.”

You incline your head to him, and he steps back, putting those preoffered hands away, folding behind him as he returns to his place.

You’ll have to speak to him again after all this is over. It’s inevitable now, and you turn to the next representative more alert, mentally tracking how many are left to see to.

Too few. Too many.

 

* * *

 

When the final gifts are laid on the tables and the hall is cleared of guests, you make a game escape attempt before the matter of House Harley's offering can land at your feet. You can see from your periphery that their representative is still in the room, leaning on the edge of a table, speaking to one of the guards with an amiable grin.

This is something outside of the usual cycles of your life, the delicate braided loops that direct your life. The threads between your path and the paths of the guild houses cross on occasion, but this feels like something else. A tangle you are unsure how to deal with.

As soon as it becomes possible, you duck out of the grand hall through the curtain behind your throne.

Your tower is a fair walk away from the rest of the castle. Separate and quiet, a welcome balm after a long ceremony. Your rooms are still, the only sound to be heard the crack-pop of the fire and your own steps across the stone floors.

The stillness does not last long. You've only just caught your breath when there is a soft knock at your door, and one of the handmaidens arrives to ask you when you'd like to see Alchemist English.

The answer is vacillating wildly between _immediately_ and _never, thanks_. You set your day crown in its place and take a bracing breath. “Now is fine. See him up.”

Momentarily, he arrives with an armed guard at his side. Which always seemed a strange precaution to you, given your unique... ability. If he's perturbed by his escort, he doesn't show it at all.

The guard breaks off to stand at the door, and the alchemist walks tentatively into your sitting room. He spies you, standin to meet him, and smiles. It has significantly less edge than his flinty grin before, warm as a sunrise. He takes two steps closer to you and bows deeply. “Your Majesty, thank you for the hospitality.”

“Rise,” you tell him, and when he straightens, you ask, “If I may inquire, how fares your grandmother?”

His lips part in silent surprise before the skin around his eyes crinkles in a delighted expression. "You remember her! Oh, she's fine. Old bones a bit whingy in this cold snap, but spry as a chicken. She'll be pleased you asked."

You nod. “So you’ve come in her stead.”

“Well, the offering was my idea.” He bites his lower lip and reaches into a satchel lashed to his hip. Out of it comes a brown glass bottle. “I remember the last exhibition, in the summer? You put on an incredible show, sire, and I just couldn’t stop thinking about it. Almost terrible of me, really. You put on a bloody fantastic performance, all those fancy parries and blocks against the mountainous knights. Such a show, and I just... was full of sympathetic pangs whenever I thought about your poor wrists."

You lift an eyebrow. “The way I hear, the Prince of Skaia is invulnerable. No harm can mar his frame. Do you disagree?”

For the first time, the penitent looks uncertain. You would feel bereft of his easy amicable presence, if you weren't so interested in this answer. To your relief, he clearly thinks it over carefully before saying, “I think the Prince might have a few aches after such a display.”

You like that answer. There is a scar around your throat, remnant of your first death and of your first return. But there's also the spectre of a fracture in your elbow that bothers you every time the temperature drops, the lingering ache in your feet after every court event you attend, and the aches in your hands left over from every use and abuse. Time has given you plenty of wounds, he's right about that much. You clear your throat. “Shoulders and wrists, you said? That’s… generous, Sir English.”

“Not any sort of sir, just Jake.” Then, he adds nervously, “If that’s alright.”

Jake, not Jacob, who has a bottle of presumed oil that he wants to put on you. Steeling yourself, you glance at the guard standing by the door, recognizing them and judging their discretion before you take a step toward Jake and lower your voice. “This is not necessary if… you are not at peace with the idea. It would cause no offense if you preferred to go.”

Jake’s eyes are wide behind his glasses. He shakes his head quickly. “No, I don’t mind at all. It was my idea, and I– I would be thoroughly vexed if I didn’t get a shot at this.”

There’s a fluttering in your chest, the urge to overrule him and send him away in confused battle with the eagerness to test his confidence. The courtly manners that have been drilled into you win out, and you nod. “Then, how should- what would facillitate this?”

He smiles. It’s a very handsome, honeysuckle sweet smile. He waves to one of the chairs in this sitting room. “The low backed chair would probably be best, Your Majesty.”

You take your seat, trying to keep a grasp on your nerves as Jake sees himself to his work. There are more items from his satchel that he puts on the tea table: a little votive candle in a clay pot and a bowl set on top. He lights a match against the clay and tends to the wick before waving it out, tossing the stick with its spent phosphorous into the fireplace nearby.

He pours about a third of his oil bottle into the bowl before carefully restopping it. “There. That just needs to warm up a bit!”

“What is it?” you inquire. You can smell it, but it’s a mixture of so many scents, you can’t determine anything except floral and something else, also floral.

“Oh, monkshood, oleander, nightshade–” He beams, terrifically pleased at your frozen expression. “No, of course not. That’d be mean, and tactless besides. It’s a concoction of my own devious designs. Almond oil as the base, then some lemon myrtle, good ol’ calming chamomile, rose, clary sage… A load of great herbs, I promise.”

You’ve heard of all those things. You don’t know much about their properties. The scent is pleasant, though, and growing stronger as the oil heats. Jake dips a finger in and holds out his other hand. “If you would.”

You place your hand in his, and he rubs the oil against your pulse point before releasing you.

Lifting it to your face, it… still smells very floral. The chamomile is easy to find, powdery and soothing.

“It doesn’t need much more heating. Don’t want it actually hot,” Jake says, the back of his fingers against the oil. “And, well. Erm.” He looks away from you, at his little setup. “If you’ll take the suggestion, Your Majesty, I think it’d be a damnable shame to ruin any of your fanciful threads with this. Might wanna take some of that off.”

Right. A massage. An offering of hands. Not just to look at and admire the skill of, but actually on you. With oil that, yes, could ruin your regal vestments.

It's still quite an ask, to have you strip some layers off. If nothing else, you can admire the courage there.

You stand to take your jacket off, folding it and laying it over another chair before unfastening the top buttons of your goosedown grey shirt. At first, you simply want to pull the linen away from your shoulders to offer up just enough skin but… you have a feeling that would look ridiculous, and you don’t want rumors that the Prince is some shrinking violet to leave these halls.

You take off your shirt and sit again, resisting the urge to wrap your arms around your chest or otherwise warm yourself. There’s a stern chill in the air. You sit statue still and breath steadily.

Jake’s eyes whisk quickly over you, and you think his cheeks darken again. It’s hard to tell with his complexion, and even if he did, you don’t know what it means. The urge to call this all off grows again. You squash it down. You’re a grown adult, not a child.

His hands glistening in the firelight, Jake slowly circles around behind you. Your muscles tense, wanting to follow and watch him. “Easy,” you hear whispered, and two fingers touch lightly against each of your shoulders, quelling the instinctive, indignant objection.

It is very rare that anyone but the occasional handmaiden touches you. You swallow against the knot in your throat.

The penitent of the House of Alchemy offered his hands, and you feel him ease them against the slope of your shoulders, palms pressing down. He doesn’t move at first, just rests his warm, oiled hands on you. Predictably and a little embarrassingly, you twitch, fingers tightly fisted and pressed to your legs as you consciously try to relax.

Jake lets out a soft noise, wordlessly sympathetic, and drags his palms down to your arms, then back up.

He comes perilously close to your neck before stopping and reversing again. There is a silver band around your throat, laid directly over the scar. It would not be good to get too close to it.

But he doesn’t. He spreads the smooth oil across your skin, redipping his hands to gather more and skate it down to your shoulder blades and the straight line of your spine. His knuckles dig in there, just a little, as he drags his hands back up. That alone has you humming, faint and involuntary.

“You have freckles,” Jake says quietly as his thumbs circle the knot at the base of your neck.

“I do,” you murmur back.

“If His Majesty doesn’t mind me saying so, they’re lovely.”

The hell? You inhale sharply. “Thank you. A gift from my parents.”

Jake laughs, and works the heels of his hands harder against you. You can feel the oil starting to sink into you as he massages it in, and you are already starting to see where his pride in its creation comes from. His hands are firm and calloused along the edges in ways that are very compelling, but the oil helps you actually enjoy said hands and interesting callouses.

To your measure, the massage is going well, and you feel Jake’s hands taking bites out of your wealth of tension. But it’s apparently not enough. Jake pauses, and asks, “Can I make a suggestion, Your Majesty?”

“Go ahead,” you say, surprised at how your voice has dropped an octave. You clear your throat.

“Shut your eyes.”

You do. Perhaps you shouldn’t, but you… very rarely indulge in anything, and this is quite the tempting diversion.

Jake stripes oil over your chin with a swipe of his thumb and instructs you to breathe. Now, the rose and chamomile seem to fill your lungs, expanding inside as you take the deepest breath you can. When you exhale, Jake leans hard against you, slowly coaxing warmth into your muscles with sustained weight, and you can nearly feel the pain mist out your mouth. Something loosens, and you didn’t even know the pain was there until it’s taken from you, it’s sudden absence a dull ache. Your throat clicks as you swallow a groan.

“You are a marvel, if you function like this. It might be a little bold to say, but you don’t have knots so much as you are a big knot.” Jake’s hard touch lightens momentarily as he redips his hands and spreads another layer of sweet oil over you.

“That sounds like a compliment, but I suspect it isn’t,” you say thickly. He’s only worked your shoulders and upper back, but your fingers are tingling, some screwed tight device in your body rattling loose.

“You wound me. You believe I’d speak ill of my liege?”

“I think,” you say unwisely, “You can say whatever you wish right now and you’d be forgiven.”

He has a laugh as warm as his hands and just as reassuring. “Oh, haha, I… don’t know what to do with such a generous offer. Likely something that’d make me look like a right buffoon, like…”

Whatever it is, it’s lost when a handmaiden walks in. You hear the sharp startled noise from Jake before it occurs to you that the sound of approaching footsteps means anything. But a woman in lilac robes bows as she enters, a pitcher in one hand, a few towels thrown over her arm.

“Begging pardon, I thought you might want to wash up ‘fore bed,” she says, then fills the basin in the corner with fresh water and sets the towels down. She’s gone swiftly with a departing curtesy.

But the moment– if such a long span of time can be called a moment– has broken. You straighten from the slouch you’ve unknowingly sunk into, and Jake’s hands fall off you reluctantly.

“They just come and go like that?” Jake asks. You think he might sound annoyed, but you’re not thinking as swiftly as normal. It could just be wishful flights of fancy. In a life of routine, you've gained an overactive, eager imagination.

“They’re… yes. They’re my retinue. They see to many things I tend to overlook. Their assistance is invaluable.” If sometimes poorly timed.

Jake rinses his hands and plucks up at towel, eyes on the doorway the woman disappeared through. “Huh. Handmaidens. Are they always maidens?”

You frown at him. “What are you asking?”

He colors darkly. “Oh, not– Oh, geez, I'm not asking that– just I’ve seen a couple of them since I arrived and no gents?”

It’s a very strange question, you think. Are there any men among your handmaidens? No. But… “That’s correct. There’s no such requirements on the role, but…”

“Interesting,” Jake says, brightening. He looks you over, and smiles. “You look a little more loosey-goosey, if I can say so.”

“You can. I’m not sure you should, but.”

It’s a weak joke, but he laughs again, and the sound warms you more than his massage did.

“Thank you,” you say, and mean to go on, add something polite and gracious, but your brain is full of warm chamomile and rose hips, clogging the clockwork.

“It is my genuine and heartfelt pleasure, Prince Strider.” He bows again, a gentle smile on his face. “If you’d like, I could do your wrists and arms?”

“No. No, that’s fine.” If he touches you anymore– you don’t know if you can deal with it presently.

“Another time then,” he says, and blows out the votive. “Thank you for humoring me. I– I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.” He’s blushing. No, you hope he’s blushing. Don’t get ahead of yourself. “Perhaps I’ll see you again.”

You nod, not ready to trust your runaway mouth at the moment. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to take offense and bows one final time before departing.


	2. lilac

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> c'mon and SLAM and welcome to the-- sorry, sorry
> 
>  **ETA 07/01/2017:** Revised. Both just to clean things up and also to remove Jane as the master of coin in the castle. Given what happens later, I... did not want her to be an accomplice in what happens.

It becomes very easy to assume you are not going to see Jake English again.

As the days slide into weeks, you return to your simple routines around the castle, your day to day that has no room for an itinerant alchemist wanding away from his guildhouse. And with that rising realization, you are also terribly conscious of how your body gradually undoes all the hard work he did for you. The tension in your body rebuilds itself, a kudze vine regrowing rampant until every tendon and chord in you is reconquered.

Now that you've had a glimpse at what you could feel like, how it feels to not be a tangled, coarse knot, the contrast is stark. Perhaps someday you will pull too tight, and your bones will collapse inward, your body a crumbling cathedral.

All you can do is hope it’s not today, or the next day.

You have Jake’s oil and his little setup to heat it, left on a shelf in your room. You can't imagine self-administration will be as effect, so the bottle remains stoppered, and you slowly forget the keen details of the feeling.

That, by all measure and logic, should be the end of it. Time slides out like a tide, and you move on. You oversee the kingdom of Skaia from your high tower, and await the time when once again you will go out, sword in hand, to handle the threat outside the walls.

It’s not until the time comes to change your retinue that anything happens.

Offering Day is not the only way the people of Skaia use to show their... penitence. The impulse to service has long been filled by the handmaidens. A collection of ladies-in-waiting who come and go freely, tending to whatever tasks need to be done, and to you when you let them.

Which, admittedly, isn’t often. There is always something uncomfortable to having them around, given the tenor of their service, but it never outweighs your gratitude for what they do.

You’ve never questioned the fact that your retinue is entirely women. It just… was how things were. The way you understand it, given the air of… reluctant divinity around your position, their service is deeply spiritual. You do your best not to dwell on that; the more you think about it, the more you want to hide away in your room and stop admitting _anyone_.

Before winter settles in, though, the shifts change. Some of the older women leave, back to their lives outside the castle. New candidates arrive to fill their places.

Among the newcomers is one Jake English, arriving with a bag over his shoulder and the same confident smile.

Every handmaiden takes part in an initiation, mostly ceremony and recitation in the main hall. You watch from the balcony above, trying not to feel like a lech as you observe the happenings below. This would be the first time you watched this initation.

From your vantage point, you see the precise three seconds of hesitation the Matron goes through as she walks down the line and reaches Jake, where he kneels patiently with the rest of the initiates. For all three of them, you think this is about to break badly and Jake will be shown the door. Being related to a guildmaster only grants so much leeway.

The Matron could consider this rude, or simply judge him unsuited to the role. And besides, do they even have robes for a male handmaiden?

(A valet? A retainer? A page? A handmaster? Well, that last one is accurate.)

Apparently there are no separate robes for him; the bundle he's handed is the same lilac robe that all members of the retinue wear. He sets it in his lap without complaint and bends before the Matron, respectful and quiet as she moves on.

You hurry back to your rooms, mind spinning.

The details of initiation are none of your business, and you don’t like to pry into things that don’t concern you, especially aspects of Skaian life that veer so close to spirituality. You do what you have to: say the right script at the right times, wear your crowns as needed, and avoid that kneejerk reaction you have when people afford you anything more than the standard reverence.

Part of that includes avoiding going out to where the kneeling and more... worshipful appelations happen, so.

Keeping to the castle means you only catch glimpses of Jake, despite your sudden closer proximity.

In the early evening, after a meeting with the council bringing you up to speed with that state of the kingdom going into winter, you start to meander back to your tower, quiet in your own company.

On the way, you pass the banquet hall, and slow your pace long enough to see a cluster of lilac handmaidens setting the tables, voices bright and clattering like silverwear as they talk through their work.

Jake is there, his arms full of a large stack of plates, following the others around. They take plates from him to set the places, and playfully prod the slight strain in his arms.

The sleeves of his robes are tied up by his biceps, but he’s still wearing them, undeniably part of the retinue.

You linger as long as you dare to, watching, until the feeling of too much time passing creeps up on you. It's presumptuous to just stand around and stare, even (especially) at the handsome boy who offered you his hands and now his service.

 

* * *

 

The next time you see him, he walks right into your rooms with a handful of long matches and a few fresh candles.

It’s common practice to… not acknowledge the handmaidens as they come and go. Just keep to your work and let them do theirs.

You are already doing a shitty job of it, your movements stilling as Jake walks in and starts changing the burned-through candles, replacing them and relighting. At least it’s mutual; he keeps glancing at you.

The illusion of work is completely gone. You set your pen in its holder as he lights the last few candles near your desk.

At last, he turns to you, blowing out the match and waving the lingering smoke away. “Your Majesty.”

“Alchemist English,” you greet.

“Oh, so you remember me!” He beams tucking his hands into his pockets. “I wasn’t sure you would, it seemed frightfully presumptuous on my part, but I hoped. Did…” He looks down at his feet, head bowed, the first expression of true deference you’ve seen from him. It’s incredibly… compelling, the way his eyes nearly close, lashes dark over his skin. “Did you get any use out of the oil?”

You take a breath. Relax, for goodness sake. "It was a gracious gift.“

"Oh.” Now his voice is small.

You feel a pang. You didn’t intend to upset him. Your mouth runs away before you can catch it: “I’ve wanted to use it. But it’s… difficult to administer on oneself.”

Jake lifts his head again, head tipped to the side. “Oh.” It doesn’t sound so hurt this time. “Well, you have a score of very kindhearted ladies, many of whom I’m _bullseye certain_ wouldn’t mind laying on hands if you needed.”

The details carved into the edges of your desk are suddenly very interesting. Far more so than Jake’s sharp gaze. “It’s not something to ask of them.”

There is a suffocating stillness following that. You can feel the tension growing in you as you fight to hold still and not look up, as if all your desires and foibles will be painted on your face for him to see.

“Would His Majesty ask it of me?”

A hot flush floods your face as you stare at him, baffled by his boldness. “What are you implying?”

Jake bows his head again, eyes low. “Only that you might ask it of… familiar hands?”

The weight of all the things Jake isn’t saying is crushing, making it hard to breathe. Your hands curl into fists, the fanned tendons in the back of your hands pressing against your skin. It stings.

Now would be a good time to send him away. Before you do or say something rash.

While you’re lining up the correct words to say, he moves. First, to the shelf where the bottle of oil has been left sitting. He holds it by the neck and flips his wrist this way and that, the oil sloshing around inside, mixing and reintegrating.

He returns to your side and smoothly drops down to his knees beside your chair.

You let out a tight gasp, pushing back against the cushions. “What are you doing?”

Jake doesn’t answer you, which is a kind of boldness you are even more startled by than the rest of his manners. Instead, he struggles to uncork the bottle. “Blasted thing,” he mutters and yanks the cork out with his teeth and triumphantly plonking it down on your desk before spilling some over his hands.

You can hear your own breathing. This is really going way too far. You anxiously glance at the doorway, but Jake is not a visitor from outside the castle now. He’s meant to be here, at your service. There’s no discrete guard this time.

Bottle set aside, Jake rubs his hands briskly together. “It genuinely works better when its warm,” he says, as if to explain. The noise, slick skin vigorously rubbing against its kind, is so loud in this room.

This is not in any script. You aren’t sure what to do here.

Eventually, Jake holds out his hands, fingers curling invitingly. “As I remember, I owe you that hand massage, Your Majesty.”

You tell yourself he has you cornered, and your only choice is to roll up your sleeves and rest your hand in his.

Jake lifts up a bit on his knees, closer to you as he bends over his diligent work. His thumbs frame your wrist, just tracing the taut lines, almost clinic examination of what he’s dealing with. He presses firm against the epicenter of your pulse, and drags upward; his hand splays wide as he reaches higher, working at the muscles in your forearm, pulling back down, fingers looped around your wrist.

He stretches out your thumb, pulling it so far you open your mouth to say something, but he simply holds it in place, and you feel the muscle pull, pull, pull, until he folds your thumb back down, and moves onto your fingers.

Your head sinks back against the chair. When he pauses to put more oil on, you want to thank him. Instead, you silently offer your hand back up. The way he sneaks a smile up at you is warming and sweet.

By the time he finishes with your left hand, your eyes are shut and your breathing is calm and steady. With casual command, he moves your arm, resting it on the chair to let your hand hang lax off the edge, your oiled skin clear of anything precious.

Then he lifts your right hand, pulling it close and starting over again.

A knot is a metaphor. You are knotted. Even if you don’t have any recourse for it, you know it’s true.

Jake’s touch is gentle, but firm, broaching no arguments as he finds the loose threads and unravels them from the tangled clutch they’ve formed.

More than once, there’s actual pain. He presses against the ball of your thumb or the muscle of your forearm, and it hurts. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't show it, but here and now you’re so undone, you can’t resist the instinctive jerk back from his hands. And every time, he holds on, doesn’t let you get away, and works the hurt until it releases, leaving you sore in the best way every time.

Your cheek rests against the back of your chair, eyes shut, dozing as your tended to. This, you know, is the stated purpose of the handmaidens, to take care of the Prince. For the first time, you don’t mind the treatment.

After a long stretch of time, you come to realize Jake is through with his massage. Instead, he’s holding both your hands in his, his thumbs moving in unison as he strokes the backs of your hands.

When you dare to open your eyes, just enough to see, Jake has slipped out of his kneeling position, just sitting at your feet, his legs tucked around him. He’s looking away, at the fireplace as the flame licks and pops.

That is what rouses you. The feeling that you’re looking at something you ought not. It shames you like a slap, and you finally sit up properly.

“Better?” Jake asks before you can say anything, derailing you right from the start.

“I– yes, thank you. That was…” Your face feels hot. “Very thorough. And helpful.”

“I’m glad. It’s my honor, and you give the impression you sorely needed it.” He smiles warmly, and you look away, down at your rejuvenated hands. They feel like they’re barely a part of you, like someone else’s have been transmutated onto your body, it’s nearly alien.

He puts a hand on your knee as he pushes up to his feet. “Matron’s gonna wonder where I’ve wandered off to this time.” He tugs and settles his robes around his legs, and offers up another smile.

If he’s aware that he’s reached into you and plucked an old waterlogged knot loose for the first time in years, he shows no sign. You try to keep your desperate puzzle of emotions out of your voice. “I see. Thank you for– thank you.”

“Always, Your Majesty. It’s what I’m here for.” With a bow, he shows himself out, leaving you to the rest of the evening, alone with your thoughts and kindling desires.


	3. cat's claw

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **revised:** 10 july 2017

Before you were elected to become the crown sacrifice, you had another life. Or the start of one, when you were much younger. Back then, you were a scholar. It was a position of somewhat more weight then, given how much Skaia was hemorrhaging on a yearly basis just to stay alive. The work of preserving knowledge was a noble one, even if it wasn't of one of the guilds. Your days (and many of your nights) were spent in the Skaian royal library, learning everything you could to create the bedrock of your knowledge with the intention of building upon it in time. 

You read up on everything. There was no area of expertise that wasn't in danger of being lost, and you were to do everything in your power to prevent that.

One concept you read about as you delved into the accumulated written knowledge of Skaia was the tenancy to take new information and tilt it to suit your expectations and biases. At the time, it was interesting food for thought; if your hand was destined to scribe more books for the Skaian library, what would your influence be and how would your perspective color the text?

That was a long time ago, but the idea still hangs a shadow over your life. No longer are you worried about how you will impact Skaia with words, because it's been a very long time since anything you've said has changed any course in this kingdom. But the question becomes:

Is Jake conspicuously present, or are you just keeping track of one of your handmaidens for the first time?

For years now you've been tended to by kind, pious volunteers, and for years their faces have blurred together. You knew the Matron, leader of the Holy Retinue, and you could probably name a handful of them. Most vividly, you remember a young troll woman named Kanaya who stayed in your service for almost three years and had been courageous enough to teach you a few integral lessons on princely presentation.

But most of them, you shamefully don't recall.

Thus, now, when you spot Jake bustling around, orbiting you like the spoke of an astrolabe, you're just not _sure_.

Every time you cross paths with him, he greets you with a smile and bow, and every time, your fingers curl, the phantom memory of his careful ministrations lingering long beyond the actual effects of the massage.

But he brings you supper, and the accouterments needed for bathing, and couriers messages to you, and puts fresh wood on the fire. All at a distance. All polite conversation.

He doesn't look at the oil bottle on your shelf, and he doesn't offer to tend to your tension again.

Which is fine. You're beginning to think his position here in the castle was some long plan to ensure he finished his offered service; now that his full task is completed, the connection between you that sparked and smoldered fades to something much more chaste and separate.

You'd known you were making it up. Still, as confirmation falls around you like first snow, you're disappointed.

Deciding Jake's flitting in and out of your space is just part and parcel of handmaiden duties, you try to put him out of your mind and focus on your work. It's inappropriate anyway. Given your position, taking a shine to one of your sworn attendants is... not good.

You keep your head down, listen to the Council when they need, and try not to fixate on Jake.

And if he begins to linger after his tasks, staring curiously at you... that'll pass in time.

You don't expect him to remain as part of the retinue for much longer. Spring, at the latest.

 

* * *

 

Another exhibition is approaching. As winter looms closer, the country needs something to focus on, some bright celebration and entertainment to bolster them for the coming months. And, like the past three years, you'll be expected to perform a duel.

Fencing was always an interest of yours, and even through the years, you've maintained plenty of skill and artistry with a foil and epee. But even that is not enough; making a fool of yourself is unacceptable, given your position to the people of Skaia. Thus, to prepare, you have to do more sparring. Every night, you take the head of your guard aside and go a few rounds with practice swords.

After a week, your wrists ache even in the midday hours, sore from every blocked strike, the violent shudder of weapon clash soaking into you through the sabre.

After two, you ask for a warmed cloth for your hands. You don't know the name of the handmaiden you send to fetch it, but you are not terribly shocked when it's Jake who returns with a long, soft bandage wrap.

"Giving yourself a nightly whallopin', Your Majesty?" he asks jovially. As he does, you watch him kneel by the fireplace. He puts the bandages in a dry stone pot to warm, sitting back with his hands in his lap as he waits.

"Sparring." You glance at him, fingers curling tight again. An ache lances through them, and you make yourself relax your hand on the arm of your chair. "The exhibition is due next month. You-- I believe you mentioned it once, as the impetus to..."

Jake looks up at you and grins. "Mind like a steel beartrap, you've got. Your showing last year was a treat." The sunspot of his smile dims a little, his eyes dropping from your face to your hands. "Not sure I'll enjoy it so much this time, all my suspicions confirmed as they are."

You're not sure what his suspicions entail. "It's nothing to worry about. I've survived worse."

His eyes widen, and you feel like an _ass_. "Doesn't mean you should!"

"It's fine," you say, trying to be reassuring. And apparently failing for some unknown reason.

"Wouldn't you prefer--" He stops hard, blinking, and turns back to the fire. With tongs, he takes the bandages out of the pot, laying them over one arm gingerly and rising up to his feet. "Hands," he says.

You hold out yours, but to take the bandages. "I can handle it."

He does not give them to you, stilling a few feet away, pulling his cloth-draped arm closer to his chest is if you're liable to steal them from him. The silence that stretches its wings is uncomfortable, chafing against your mood and leaving you even more tense.

The unexpected standoff doesn't abate, and his piercing eyes narrow on you. "I know you can handle it, so what are you trying to prove?" he asks, his voice more than a little cool.

Prove? You don't follow, and simply stare back at him stupidly for a moment. Things are always strange with him. Every other handmaiden you've had followed your commands without protest. Sometimes they questioned you, but usually just for clarity. It was possible that ease of call-and-answer came from how little you liked to ask of them, but... _this_ thing, asking for a hot cloth, shouldn't be an imperial issue.

While the confusion steeps, Jake finishes crossing the room and sinks down at your feet. As you feared, he doesn't hand over anything, just drops the cloth in his lap and holds out his hand, asking silently for yours.

Demanding it, really. This is wholly unique to you, and you try to plot the right course of action. You should press the issue or reprimand him, you think? But this level of obstinance, even crouched in subservience as Jake's always is, is brand new to your life. Not many push back against the Eternal Prince.

Even knowing that, even knowing this feels  _significant_... your wrist hurts. And you know how Jake excels in this area.

You rest your hand in his grasp, and he closes both his around yours, like accepting a gift. Thumb brushing against you, you feel his gratitude transferred by touch and in the way he smiles, the earlier consternation melting away, ice under the hot sun.

Some of the tension in your chest releases as his eyes soften. You hate to upset him.

"There we are," he murmurs, fitting his palm against yours, your fingers against his. He laces them, then turns your hand over and starts to wrap it. As you'd hoped, the hot cloth feels amazing as it winds around you.

But Jake does more. Removes little metal jar from a pocket inside his robe and unscrews it. There's a salve inside, and he swirls his thumb in it and rubs the substance around your wrist. It leaves a faint sheen that he covers immediately with the warm wrap.

Your mouth is very dry, and you reach for your glass to take a deep drink. "More alchemy tricks?"

"I'm just a bunch of alchemy tricks in an empty flour sack," Jake says with a chuckle. "Ginger, eucalyptus, cat's claw, all reduced down to this muck. It'll help."

You sit silently as he wraps up one hand, then the other. He's very good at it; the wrap is pressed firmly against the worst aches while leaving your fingers mobile enough to pick up your pen if needed. When he finishes, he spins the little salve container between his fingers. His teeth press against his lower lip.

"Hm. Hm, hm hm!" He ducks his head. "I could leave it for you, but I doubt you'd make any use of it. Best I just drop by and do it myself, I gather."

He's going to come back. He _keeps_  coming back, and you are certain it's not just you being hyperfocused on the first attractive friendly boy who's touched you since you took this cursed crown. You breathe out hard, and Jake looks up at you, curious and oblivious to the wave of turmoil crashing into your shores.

"What's that face for, then?" Jake asks. He reaches for your hand again, palm up, fingers beckoning. "Did I tie them too tight?"

"Why'd you join the handmaidens?" you blurt out, ugly and graceless.

The hushed fall around you is like a felled tree, a great heavy thing wavering and starting to sink and tumble down about to crash into your head. It's... unfathomably rude to ask someone about this. Especially you, the unfortunate centerpiece of this psuedo-religion the handmaidens are devoted and sworn to. By the fucking stars, you deserve every death, twice over again.

Jake just stares at you, mouth open.

The last thing you should do is push on and attempt to fix this, and yet: "At first I believed you were just of some uncommonly strong sense of honor and-- and wanted to complete your service to me from the offering day, but you're still here."

You can see his throat work as he swallows. He's as disquieted as you are, it seems. "It's a thing, a-a-- a good, pious thing to do, right? Donning the lilac and flittin' about, doing what you can. Who wouldn't want the opportunity to tend to a godly home?"

"You don't think I'm a god," you remind him. "You came to tend to my _very_ mortal aches and pains, you made that clear from the start."

Jake unfolds and climbs to his feet, hands tucking into his pockets, expression bewildered, mouth moving even as he reaches for the words. "Well, I... That's a hard line of investigation, Your Majesty! I think you're a good man and you sacrifice so much for us, any bloke worth his salt would want to help out."

"You're an _alchemist_. You were in position to help plenty."

Jake's face falls into a sudden, deep sorrow. "Do you want me to leave?"

"No!" You say it too loud, too fast. "No, that's not... I just want to understand why."

He wraps his arms around himself, gaze flicking between your face and the safety of the floor. "I... Gosh-friggin-damn, I... I told you, didn't I? I saw you at the last exhibition. And you looked... tired." He licks his lips, looking down at his feet. "I wanted to help."

There is nothing to say to that. It's... a nice sentiment. Of the people in your service, you don't think many chose to be there because you looked in need. You lower your hands to your lap, backs pressed to your knees, the warmth suffusing into your aches and working with the salve to soothe them. Such tender care, and this is how you repay him.

"I could work in the alchemy house, yeah, do my good deeds there. I like it enough back home. Gran taught me some incredible stuff, and I'm a shoe in to take over down the road. But..." He sniffs quietly, and you really hope you haven't made him cry, by the stars, you can't handle that. "I mean, it's-- succor and balm, right? It's in the Oath." He pats his pocket, where the little pot is stashed away. "Giving it to you doesn't work. Only way to make sure is do it myself."

You don't know what to say to that. You're grateful, goodness knows, if puzzled that anyone would care to such a degree just from observing you from a distance. His brand of care is so different from what you're accustomed to, even from your most solicitous handmaidens. After so long of this, you simply assumed they all saw you as a crown upon the head of a very determined, resilient sacrificial lamb.

This is different somehow.

Jake drags his eyes back to yours at last. "Don't send me away, Your Highness, please."

As if you could.

"I don't intend to," you say, and Jake sighs loud and relieved. "If you want to... I don't mind if you mean to..."

Jake's sharp grin relights his face. "To, as we all have to parrot, _ease the burden you carry_?"

Stars and pillars above. You only vaguely know the full Oath and it's never sounded so lascivious before. "Sure. If that's what you want, then I'm willing to shelf my reservations for a while."

Jake beams and gives you a sweeping bow. "You will not regret it, sire. Leave 'em on the shelf and let them catch dust, you'll be better for it, I promise."

You don't share his confidence, but... it's easy to look at him and hope he's right.

After making plans to return come morning to check on your hands, Jake thanks you profusely for your time and trust, and leaves you alone for the night. Just you and your tumultuous concerns and fears and quiet hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /frowns. why aren't they having sex yet.


	4. gunpowder oolong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **revised:** 10 july 2017

There are different levels of awareness. It's another thing you learned before you went from scholar to sacrificial king. You know there is a difference between knowing your guardian was technically your father, and knowing he was your brother. There are degrees of truth, and you take them when you can and turn a blind eye when you can't.

For instance, one truth:

The handmaidens live in the castle and assist with the daily minutiae of life to further their spiritual maturity. It's the domestic flip for those unable or uninterested in taking up arms as a guard. There is old wisdom about how honest work erodes the excesses and leaves a shiny, truthful center, like polishing a precious gem.

Another:

You are a young prince (by some measure, certainly) and you are unmarried. And, if you take the time to dress yourself decently and do your hair properly, you... clean up pretty well. And some of the handmaidens notice, are motivated in part by noticing.

Sometimes, you try not to know that. It only makes you feel like you're taking advantage or leading them on. It also makes you miss Kanaya, who you favored heavily in part because she was dating a lady seer from one of the guilds.

Now, another winter settles in and everyone hunkers down in the castle. Close quarters with so many kind people sworn to your service has you wanting to pace a hole through your floor.

It's with no small amount of guilt that you favor Jake out of the retinue. He has a willfulness to him that's almost a chore to handle, but you still prefer his company when you can get it.

Tonight, he lingers around your quarters long past what his daily tasks require, standing with his hands tucked into the lilac sleeves of his robes as he watches you transcribe an ellipse as you pace out your thoughts.

"Can I offer two coin for your thoughts?" he asks eventually, when it becomes clear he's not going to just decide you're dull entertainment tonight and leave.

"Do you have two coin," you ask in a dry voice. "Isn't there an oath to not hold material wealth while in service to the crown?"

"It's an implied oath, really. To  _yield my being to ease the burden you carry for us all_ , and all that entails. Supposed to set a standard for a life without indulgence and excess, but that doesn't stop the lasses in the bower from getting into the sort of trouble that'd make a courtesan blush!" He grins for a second, so fiercely that you...  _believe_ he's joking, but honestly have no idea. You don't know enough about life in the bower. When you don't join in with the jocular gossip, Jake's smile dims a little. "Really, if you keep this up, you'll have to replace your rug."

The problem is, it's winter. All around, Skaia loses grip of its lush fertility. In any other kingdom, it would be as simple as the turning of the seasons, the ebb and wane of green into brittle cold and then back again. But other kingdoms do not have the living darkness teeming in the forest just outside the city walls.

Soon, spring will come. And soon, you will go out again, to... let it in. Open the door, as it were.

"Grandmother always says that there's people who become troubled like hurricane waters when the seasons change. Something in the air and the way the light goes all higgledy-piggledy," Jake says, undeterred.

"And what does the alchemy house prescribe for such things?" you inquire.

"Loads of things! Depends on the person. But more than anything, some nice strong Skaian tea."

You still, and frown slightly. "No, thank you. Not a fan."

Jake looks like he's been slapped, rocking back on his heels. "Come again?"

"Tea. I don't get the appeal. Hot water with leaves." You shrug, and take a step, slipping right back into your pacing.

" _Hot water and leaves_ , he says. Our most esteemed and courageous prince." Jake extricates a hand from his robe to wave it emphatically. "I was given to understand that with godhood came great wisdom."

"Sure," you reply mildly, meaning the opposite. The subject of your godhood is being worn into a common joke between the two of you. "The perspective and intelligence to know when everyone around you has gotten wrapped up in a strange drink fad."

Jake gapes at you before shutting his eyes, lifting his hand to press his forefinger and thumb against them. "No. I refuse. This is now a-- a professional insult. And a personal one! No, I'll be back shortly. I have a tea box in my things. 'Scuse me."

You watch him whisk around, robes floating animatedly around him in his haste. He tosses a belated, "And sit down, get comfy!" over his shoulder before vanishing out the door.

You sit, and try not anticipate his return too much.

Jake returns within the hour with his tea box. What you'd expected was a small case of teabags, or more of the little canisters that he seems to carry with him everywhere, each filled with  _some_ trade secret of his home. But the tea box he carries fills his arms, too big around to hold some minor collection.

As you stand to assist, he clucks his tongue at you, bouncing back on his heels when you move towards him. The message is clear, and you reluctantly sit down again, sinking back into your best chair and trying not to lift a finger to help. As you give into his _demand_ for laziness, Jake smiles wider, pleased. It makes little sense, but you're learning that nothing Jake does makes sense. It's at least a fun curiosity and distraction.

He's always distracting. As the weeks slide by, your mind strays more and more, restless where before you were before still as frozen lake. But if you are prone to idle fantasy, that's not... actionable, you think. No one needs to know about this point of weakness.

It'd be a shame to lose moments like this, watching Jake triumphantly unlatch the tea box and open it. The box is beautiful, dark wood with set inlays of lighter colors in what you think is the Harley family crest. Inside is a stout, green clay pot that he sets on the table, along with a matching cup, a glass jar of what looks like honey, and another glass jar of dried up silver and green leaves.

He sets everything out, then hurriedly puts a pot of water over the fire.

"This seems like a lot of effort for something I won't enjoy," you warn him.

Jake tosses an almost coy look over his shoulder at you. "Oh, you will. Don't you worry, Your Majesty."

Alchemists are forces to be reckoned with. You've known this forever. Everyone looks upon the Alchemy Guild with trepidation and respect, all wondering what sort of craft the members learn beyond its closed doors and drawn curtains.

Watching the heir to the house make you tea is a rare and strange treat, and only resembles your own attempts at brewing in the vaguest sense, like viewing something through a clouded window.

Jake sits on the ottoman, gathering up the hem of his robe and throwing it over his lap to get it out of the way. You can see the ball of his foot and the soft wrap of his evening shoes just barely around the table. Mostly, you are watching his hands as he spoons a precise amount of tea leaves into the pot. He pours water in, explaining quietly, "Not boiling, that's important, these are top shelf leaves and you don't want to scald them, it'll make the whole mess into bitter leaf juice."

"So, tea," you remark.

He waves a scolding finger at you, but focuses on his work. With the pot half full, he sets the water aside and makes a show of eyeing you up with a calculating look. Then, he adds two generous dollops of honey to the pot, and stirs it, three times clockwise, one counter. Shaking the spoon off, he dries it on a napkin and returns it to his tea box; it's a perfect half moonful, so perhaps its some precise measuring tool he keeps with the set.

He pours the rest of the water in and lids the pot. As he glances at you again, you can see an idea strike him. "Oh, it's getting late. So, let me just..." He pulls something out of his sleeve, another little alchemy pot. You're starting to suspect he has an entire herbalist shelf sewn surreptitiously into his robes somehow. He adds a dash of something to the pot before packing it all away again.

He touches the back of his fingers to the pot for a second, and smiles. "We'll get you all taken care of."

You sit up, ready to take your cup from him when it's ready. There's only the one, though, and you frown. "Are you not..."

His smile is so fucking gentle, it stings. "Just for you. Try to relax."

"It's not something that comes naturally to me," you admit, obligingly laying your hands on the armrests of your chair.

"I think we're making progress there, actually." Jake laughs softly. "And maybe this will help. A good green with gunpowder oolong, one of my favorites."

Enough of a favorite for him to bring it along with him when he relocated to the bower with the handmaidens. You're honored.

He takes a little metal net and lays it over the top of the cup before lifting the pot to pour, two fingers resting securely against the lid to hold it in place. The liqueur that pours out is a rich yellow with hints of green. A few leaves fall out with it, catching on the sieve and staying as he fills the cup most of the way. Setting the pot down and removing the net, he stands, picking up the cup.

You sit up, reaching, and Jake does that-- that thing again, halting as you try to bridge the gap. It makes your breath catch in your chest, a slight hitch that you can only hope he doesn't hear.

You take a breath and rest back against the chair, and are swiftly rewarded with Jake stepping in to your side to hand you the cup, his hand securely holding the rim as you gingerly take hold.

"It'll be hot," he murmurs, and rests one hand on the tall back of your chair, leaning as he waits with you.

You try very hard not to stare up at him. It's difficult. There's nothing else in the room as interesting as him, and part of you thinks he knows it, from the way his lips slowly curl up as he catches you looking. Why it brings heat to your face, you don't know.

Or, you do, but it's a different degree of truth, one you're less capable of dealing with right now.

You're not sure how you feel about having someone who is so calm in your presence. Maybe it's another alchemist thing, and Jake has it bottled and ready. Essence of not being caught up in the tangled web of your own head.

It's not until he tells you, "Go ahead," that you realize you were waiting for his prompt. The heat in your face is tremendous, and you busy yourself taking a sip of tea. It's just barely cool enough to drink, and tastes as golden as it looks, clean and undoubtedly _green_  like fresh grass with a citrus-tart gunpowder scent under it all. The honey is just barely there, a balm over the bitterness.

It's definitely nothing like any tea you've slapped together in the past before you gave up on the drink altogether. Wordlessly, you drink the first cup, leaving every mouthful on your tongue to absorb the flavor, almost mystified at how good it is. If an autumnal sunspot could be distilled into water, it'd taste something like this.

As soon as you're done, Jake takes the cup from you with a bright, pleased hum, and refills it, the same meticulous process again before he hands it back.

There's surprisingly little said as you drink tea. Jake hovers solicitously for much of the time and refills your cup when needed, but otherwise simply remains at your side. Eventually, he sits down again on the ottoman, between you and the table. He's attentive, so attentive you aren't certain what to do with it. It's a warming feeling, like the tea heating your chest, the way he's just close by and demanding nothing of you but your slow relaxation under his care.

But of that, he is _very_  demanding, and it bundles together with the way his hands felt on yours, how he unravels you and pries your grip open to take the tension out of you.

You stare at his profile as he looks idly at the fireplace, sitting near you like some handsome, welcome warden.

Whatever he put in the tea must be working, you're becoming incoherent even to yourself. And your eyes keep shutting, your blinks lasting too long.

Before you spill it everywhere, Jake takes the cup from you, setting it on the table. "What did I tell you? Tea. An old cure, but a damned good one."

"Thank you," you say, surprised at the slight bleed in your words. Are you slurring? Stars, you hope not. Jake should never see you in such a state.

When he steps back to let you stand, you get to your feet with care, holding onto the chair for balance. He holds up a hand, as if ready to catch you. You regain balance, afraid of what might happen if he touches you when you're like this, tired and unguarded and dangerous.

He holds your gaze for a moment, then ducks his head. "I'll clear away my mess. Thank _you_  for humoring me."

"It was good. Much better than expected." Everything he does is better than you expect it seems.

His teeth press into his lower lip as he stifles what looks like a big grin. "Well. Maybe we can do this again."

You'd like that, even if the idea makes something inside you pace furiously, worriedly. He's your handmaiden. He is taking care of you, tending to you in ways you've never permitted before, but ways that are helpful. Or, you think so. It's hard to be sure when faced with so many novel experiences, trying to sort them out is terrifying.

You are undoubtedly his Prince, and he is undoubtedly in your service. Devotedly so.

As you watch him go and bid him goodnight, you're mind whirls, trying to figure out why this natural order of things feels so _un_ natural, dagger sharp and precarious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was supposed to be The Porn, but my jam time got interrupted, like, several times over, so instead this is some tea service stuff City wanted.


	5. cinnamon and pine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **revised:** 11 july 2017

Without permission, time slips by as winter sets in around Skaia. From your room, you can see the world around you bleed out its colors. The sky is greyer, the leaves brown and fall, and the cold is a wide brush marring the landscape around your kingdom. It's so intense, you think you can feel the warmth being drained from the land every time your hand rests on the windowsill in your bedroom. If you hold on too long, it will start to take bites out of you too. And its not time for such things yet.

Before the first snowfall, you're nudged out of your tower, making way for a flurry of lilac robes who arrive to prepare you for the cold. There are more linens on the bed, thicker curtains over the windows to hold the chill at bay, and a fire is started that will be kept stoked and burning for the rest of the season.

Leaving them to it, and not wanting to make any of them feel unwelcome with your taciturn awkwardness, you go for a walk through the castle. It's a change of scenery that helps you think. You've had a lot on your mind as of late.

Inevitably, you cross paths with the person responsible for much of that weight on your mind. Down in one of the courtyards is Jake, conspicuously absent from the selection of the retinue charged with changing your room. Instead he's kneeling in the dying grass by a garden plot, tending to it and taking the presumed final snips from the various herbs and flowers before their annual withering. There is a basket at his side, half-full of bundles of flora that he pulls and ties up with meticulous confidence in every movement.

As you linger in the shadow of the archway, you watch his sleeves fall down his arms, and his cheery humming stops. With a beleaguered sigh, he sits back on his heels and unlashes his big sleeves, using leather cords to retie everything back again.

Once everything is out of his way again, he gets back to it, snipping another stretch of string tie the next bundle with.

You watch, and think about how difficult it must be to work like that in those robes.

Because the thing you are avoiding thinking about is the approach of Candlenights.

For you, Candlenights is a very quiet affair. Many of the people living or working in the castle leave for the holiday to spend the night with family and to exchange gifts. With this in mind, you worked up the courage to ask Jake about his plans, wonder who he'd be spending it with. By his own admission, he has no plans and intends to stay in the castle this year. "I've already sorted out most of my gifts and will send them along," he explained over tea one evening.

So, he'll be close. It's hard to put it out of your mind. This Candlenights, you will share a roof with Jake. You have not shared the holiday with someone you cared about for quite some time. There is the Council and the castle staff, but none share the same tenor as your relationship with Jake.

 _Relationship_ , whatever that even means.

You watch Jake as he works for a solid week, thinking about the possibilities. A new tea set might interest him, but given the family crest on his fancy box, it could be an heirloom you don't want to replace. Alchemist tools might be good, but you cannot imagine you would know more about the craft than him and would just embarrass yourself.

The royal kitchen would make dark chocolate or macaroons or something decadent if you requested, but... there is something decidedly romantic about giving someone sweets, and the fear of rebuke has you paralyzed. And there are plenty of liquors and wines in the cellar, but... there is something impersonal about that.

It's a knife's edge to navigate. You ache to give him something, if only as recompense for all the help he's given you, the decadent care. But you are the Prince. It's inappropriate.

You could scare him away.

That idea has you frozen, arrested from making any decision by your own fear. You are stuck in an stalemate with yourself until you cross paths with Jake one afternoon in the dining hall.

He's sitting at the table, a collection of bottled ingredients set out in an audience before him. Before you can stop them, your feet carry you closer.

And Jake looks up and jumps to his feet, putting himself between the table and you. "Nope! No, we'll be having none of that, Your Majesty, no!"

You halt, brow furrowing. "Uh, pardon? What's wrong?"

Jake catches his hands in the pockets of his robe and spreads out his skirt as far as it can go, a pale wall in your line of sight. "It's a secret, and I'd thank you kindly to turn yourself about and move on, sire."

The flash of heat in your face is total and fast. "Oh. If... that's your wish, certainly. I don't mean to interrupt your personal hours."

"Yes, quite unchivalrous of you, very uncouth, now about-face and march out of here," Jake orders, smiling.

You're no fool. He's making a gift. And you're not allowed to see it.

That is all you need to get your head out of your ass and get to work on your own.

 

* * *

 

When Candlenights falls over Skaia, it's quite a sight. Your balcony overlooks the town, and you can see the streetlamps being doused one by one. In their wake, the town is lit by a single tall candle set on every windowsill. It's dimmer than the proper lamps, but the way the flickering golden light pierces the night is profound. Soft and as close to sacred as you still understand.

You stand outside, withstanding the cold as long you can, until your limbs start to truly go numb. Your fingertips sting as you press them together and retreat inside.

Company awaits you. You sort of expected it would.

Jake has a small chest under one arm and a wry look on his face.

"Blessed Candlenights to you, sire," he says, voice low as the firelight outside. "Your nose and ears have gone red as holly berries, if I may say so."

You swallow around the tight feeling in your throat. "For tonight, I'd... bid you to speak as freely as you like."

"A rare gift in the crown's presence," Jake remarks, lips upturned in amusement and private humor. "And I'm so inclined to hold my tongue, aren't I?"

There is not a safe response to that; you sidestep it. "I'm surprised to see you. All the handmaidens are released for the holiday."

"Are you surprised?" It doesn't sound like a true question. Jake walks forward and sets his chest down on your tea table, one hand lingering on the lid.

Stars and pillars, he's unwavering. It makes your heart race. It's unfair, how easily and amiably he takes the upper hand. Unwilling to be left behind, you take the opportunity to step into your quarters and pick up the wrapped bundle you have sitting on your dresser, carrying it back and setting it down next to Jake's chest.

Jake's entire expression and posture softens like butter, lines around his eyes crinkling as he looks at your addition to the table. "Oh," he says softly.

"I... anticipated your gesture and wished to reciprocate," you say quietly, tangentially aware you're hiding behind staid, distant language. "Is that agreeable?"

"Quite." His fingers twitch, hands lifting towards the table. "Well, then, shall we?"

Each of you take a chair and pull your respective gifts onto your laps. The urge to watch Jake open his is a desperate suffocating thing; he might not like it, or understand it, and no matter what it'll pale next to something so obviously handmade as his gift to you. As his hands set on the white parcel paper and the dark ribbon, you nearly want to start making your excuses and temper his expectations.

As he catches sight of your hesitation, he gives you a stern look. "Together, right?"

"Right," you agree belatedly, and unlatch the chest, tracing the seam in the wood with your thumb as you glance at him over the top.

He pulls the ribbon loose before catching your eyes, and waiting. Your insecurities stared down, you return your attention to the chest, and open it.

Inside, there is a bed of sweetgrass, acting as the padding to three small containers. By now, your interest in his alchemy should be waning as the novelty fades, but setting eyes on his latest creations has a lightning strike of exhilaration running through you.

There's a bottle of oil, a glass flask of liquid, and a sachet of silkcloth filled with some solid mixture.

You pick up the sachet first, turning it over in your hands. There's salt, you think, packed tightly and crushing stalks of lavender and eucalyptus and other flora you don't recognize, alongside little spheres of amber. The tag attached to it has in a scrawled handwriting, _Remove tag, throw whole kit into hot water, stir til dissolved._

Bath salts. You smile down at the little stuffed bag; you have a reputation for your long, frequent baths. It's certainly something you'll use.

You look up to tell Jake so, and find him standing, the parcel paper discarded to the floor as he holds the contents against his chest.

You shut the lid of the chest quickly and stand with him, mouth going dry. You let yourself become distracted, and now... "I-- I wasn't certain what would be suitable, and I had to guess the measurements. If you don't like it, I'll take no offense and--"

"Shut up," Jake says, voice thick.

The new robe isn't lilac. You probably should have consulted the Matron about that to ensure it wouldn't be a problem, but... once you'd seen the rich pine green in the tailor's workshop, you couldn't get it out of your head. And you are the Prince. Surely you can presume, just this once.

"It's two pieces," Jake says quietly.

You suck in a harsh breath. "Yes, the... the sleeved shirt is first, then the rest."

He nods slowly, and lifts his eyes to yours. "May I take advantage of your hospitality again, Your Majesty? Ask you to turn for a moment?"

Oh. "Of course."

You turn, and for the next moment, the only sound in the room is of fabric rustling. You shut your eyes, ensuring you don't... happen upon some reflective surface to peer through, and just listen as Jake changes. You can tell when his lilac uniform is dropped to the floor, the distinctive noise collapsing linen makes. It's a strain to hear the rest.

Soon, Jake says, "What're these straps for? I can't find where they go."

Eyes clenched shut, you think furiously. "The... fastens? Which--"

"Oh, turn around and help me, sire, honestly. This is your contraption."

"It's not," you protest weakly, but steel yourself and turn.

Jake has the fitted tunic on, the rich green sleeves clinging close to his arms with little give. Over it, the robe's pulled on, the hood pushed off his head. The chest hangs airily around him before expanding out into his skirt. He's reached and pulled the dark straps from the inside lining through the open sides of the robe, holding them in his fists with a puzzled frown.

"Those, right." You close the distance between you both and take one from his hands. "I told the tailor about how you bind up the robe to get it out of your way. These are sewn inside, and you can use them to lift the hem of the robe if you need, but when you don't..." You find the slit at his waist and tread the strap through. "It's a belt."

"The tailor," Jake breathes. "Is this... from the royal tailor?"

"Yes? Yes."

Jake laughs soft and breathy, putting a hand up to his mouth. He follows your example, threads the other strap through and fastens the belt, drawing the shape of the robe in closer. It's... more flattering.

"You can just push up your sleeves now. The weave can handle the stretch and will wash back flat, Kanaya assured me." You lick your lips; your mouth's so damn dry. "I've seen you tying the sleeve back more often than not."

He exhales hard, still looking over the new clothes with parted lips, a quietly surprised expression. "You've been very observant, sire."

What does that mean? That sounds bad. You step back, folding your hands behind your back. "I didn't mean to. To be observant. I couldn't help noticing."

"I don't mind," Jake says hurriedly, finally looking up at you. He cheeks are dark. That _must_ be good, surely? "It's... I've never wanted for basic necessities, and I have fine garments for special occasions, but..." He smooths a hand down his chest, the dark green cloth. "Nothing like this."

"Then you like it?" As soon as you ask, you wince. It's a paltry, decrepit question to offer, like a sick bird. Just because you're starving for the reassurance doesn't mean you can just give in like that.

Jake smiles. "I do. I adore it, it's the bee's knees, it's the cat's meow, it's... I don't have the words!" He tucks his hands into the pockets and moves his hips, the skirt following airily. "The color's very good. And, if'm honest, this makes my gift seem inadequate! Damnation, why'd I try to compete with the Good Prince? Didn't figure you'd be good at _every_  blasted thing, gift-giving included!"

The effusive praise is so much, you're not sure how to even respond. You're so relieved he likes it. Beyond that emotion, everything is a jumbled mess.

"I was going to ask about yours. I certainly like the salts. As soon as I saw them, I was tempted to call for a bath."

"Well, that can be arranged, but let me..." He holds out his hands, fingers curling. It's a familiar beckon, and you hasten to answer it, opening the chest and picking out the flask and bottle. You place them in his hands.

The soft, awed look leaves his face as his lips curl into a smirk. "My intention was to give you, ah, a little decadent box. You are more in need of alchemically aided relaxation than anyone in the kingdom."

"Thanks," you say dryly.

"Welcome," he answers proudly. "This one," he lifts the bottle, "is a massage oil. Specially made for you, sire. I've had enough time in your divine presence, I thought you might like something a bit customized to your unique needs."

 _Unique needs_ is a strange turn of phrase. "I see. And the other?"

Jake lifts the flask. "The other surefire relaxant. Alcohol." He grins. "It's a cordial. I've had it steeping for over a month now. One of my favorite recipes. Cinnamon, clove, lemons, and all the blackberries I could fit in."

That explains the dark, dark liquor; you'd assumed it was the glass itself, but no, as you take the flask, the midnight cordial moves with you.

Jake shrugs, setting the oil on the table. "Nothing so impressive as this bit of fashion," he reflects, hands back in his pockets.

"You say that like I'm not tempted to try every one of these right now." Turning the chest, you replace each of the items, fingers running over each handwritten label. Unbidden, you wonder how much of a stipend the Alchemy Guild receives from the treasury. Not enough, clearly.

"Well, that's the intention. A one-two-three punch to take care of you." He bites his lip. "If you'd like... It'd take no time to draw that bath."

You sigh just thinking about it. Hot water, salts, good alcohol, and Jake's hands. Then, remembering: "It's Candlenights. You have the day, you should use it as you see fit."

Jake snorts. "You assume I'm not." He gives you a quick wink, then steps around you, reaching into the chest to grab the salts. He tosses them up and catches them in his palm. "Give me two shakes and I'll have you ready for a soak."

You mutely nod and watch him leave.

As he goes, you bend to pick up his discarded, forgotten lilac robe.

 

* * *

 

The royal baths are down the corridor from your chambers.

The room is huge, with a domed ceiling. Carefully laid polished tiles reflect a depiction of the night sky beyond, constellations and planets and stars overhead. Below, there are three grand clawfoot tubs, shelves of towels and linens and bath soaps. Also, as necessary, a large, suspended vat of water.

By the time you enter, your evening clothes discarded in favor of a bathrobe, Jake has one of the tubs filled. His sleeves are pushed up to his biceps as he works, the easy muscle of his arms on display as he closes the spigot on the vat. From one of the shelves, he plucks up a stone token, engraved with the pointed symbol for fire. With some force, he snaps it between his fingers and drops it in the tub.

In seconds, it starts steaming, and Jake nods in approval, adding the sachet of salt in as well.

There are stools scattered around the room. You sit on one and open your flask as you watch him stir up the water. Immediately, the scent is thick and syrupy, blackberry and spice. Your mouth waters before you even take a sip.

The cordial is _thick_ , and as sweet as it smells, cut by the bite of alcohol and the much more fanged bite of spices.

"Good?" Jake asks, barely looking up.

"Very much so. I'd accuse you of dark magicks if I didn't know better."

Jake grins. "Most of alchemy is just botany with an attitude problem. I'm glad to share the spoils. I've never had such a receptive audience."

"I'm honored," you say, and Jake's head lifts, eyes widening. You recognize the words, spoken _to_  you so many times.

Jake smiles, almost shy, and stands. "It should be a decent temperature, Your Majesty."

Times innumerable, you've bathed with a handmaiden nearby. They're often the ones to set up the baths for you, and you're long used to their turned backs as you settle into the water. This time, though, it's Jake, who hums as he picks up his bottle of oil, shaking it idly as he stands there, not _quite_  turned away.

You shed the robe anyway, and gratefully sink into hot water. It smells herbal, the salts fully dissolved and integrated. Along the bottom of the tub, you can feel the sachet. Fishing it out, you lean over to set it on the floor before holding the rim and sitting down.

With your long limbs, it's a miracle you can submerge. Your legs have to bend slightly, but it's comfortable, and you're sunk to your clavicle.

Resting your head back, you sigh. This. If there is any part of royal indulgence you enjoy, it's this.

The metal legs of the stool click against the floor as Jake moves it close to the tub, next to your head, behind you. "For the full experience, sire," he says, and taps the flask against your shoulder.

This, you decide, is a very good Candlenights gift. You take another sip of the cordial, humming absently at the flavor, at how it warms your chest from the inside like the water's embrace. Winter feels so far away from here, where you are so comfortable. Already, you find yourself daydreaming about your bed, warmed by the pans stashed beneath the mattress. It's going to feel incredible.

Everything is so good, you can barely stand it.

And then Jake takes the flask from you and sets it aside. "Sit up. Arms on the tub."

His candor sheds more politesse and deference with each passing day, leaving a firm assertiveness underneath. It's nice. Deep down, you think allowing someone to speak to you in this way is probably a bad idea, but with Jake, his voice is always a suede sheath; whatever sharp edges he may have are covered and secure. They make you _feel_ secure.

And there is no one around to impress. To your silent delight, you've already impressed Jake enough for the evening. Now, some reciprocation wouldn't be amiss.

You spread your arms out over the edge of the tub, lamenting the chill against your wet skin, but also unwilling to argue with Jake and his remarkable skills.

A cork is pulled audibly. "This one is almond oil again. That's usually the base of these sorts of things. Then... what all did I add? Rosehip oil, a small amount of ginger, and a not-so-small amount of cinnamon. Some other things to cut those sucker punches." The sound of his slicked hands rubbing together is far too familiar to you.

One finger presses against the back of your skull, urging your head forward, chin down. You go without fuss. "Sounds... spicy."

"Heating. That's the thing. You and your knots, sire. I'll defeat them all _someday_ and this is my latest volley."

"I apologize. My body is a battlefield, it seems."

"Oh, no doubt," Jake murmurs, and places his hands on you.

You've had shoulder massages from Jake before, until the initial bottle of oil ran dry. But this time, you can feel the difference. His fingers drag slickly over your skin, and the oil he spreads literally feels _warm_ , a tang heat that starts to permeate as soon as he lays his palms against you. Your breath hitches, and Jake says, "If it's too much, I can cut it a little."

You really think about it. The heat is so strong, you initially want to curl away from it. But it's not unlike the first step into a bath; too hot, then settling into a bearable piquancy. Shaking your head, you lean back into his hands with a sigh.

Jake's work is as diligent and firm as always. The blunt pressure of his fingers in your muscles drags a groan out of you before you can stop it. Any other day, you'd be worried, but... your head is filled with steam, your tongue is wet with heady sweetness, and Jake's hands are dragging the tension out of your shoulders.

"I swear, I just did this two weeks ago and you've gone and tangled yourself up again, like a kitten got into the yarn," Jake observes quietly.

You hum back, eyes shut. The oil is sinking deep into your muscles. Even where Jake's not working his hands and massaging you, the heat  loosens you up.

When he's done with your shoulders, he puts a hand on your forehead and tilts you back, resting on the rim again. There is a solid presence behind you, your head resting against it. You feel the steady rise and fall and realize you're resting on Jake's chest. That's... probably fine. It's Candlenights. 

You can hear the smile in his voice as he says wryly, "Prince of Skaia, turned all pliable and easy but a little hot water and hands-on, huh?" His hands vanish for a moment, then return, fingertips touching your collarbone gently.

You hum again, unwilling to say anything further. It's so much effort, and he's right; this is your element.

The long, hard line of your collarbone is traced slowly, back and forth for a moment before his hands splay out over your skin. It's... a far more intimate touch than anything he's done before, hands pressing against your pectorals, fingertips digging in and dragging up to your shoulders. Another sigh is lifted out of you by the motion.

"Jake," you manage through the deep fog of steam and heat.

Jake shushes you softly, and his hands repeat the motion. Stars and pillars, it feels good, a spreading vector of heat and insistent kneading.

There has always been certain consequences to having Jake's hands on you. Expected results of having the aches in your body unwound and taken from you. The tension release that starts in your shoulders and spreads down your spine.

But usually, you're able to hide it behind the somewhat stiff fit of your clothes.

Now, a stirring in your body is much harder to mask. The sachet colored the water, but hardly made it opaque. As Jake's hands sink below the water and trace your sides, finding and following the lines of your ribs, you let out a hard exhale and shift your legs, fear of discovery rousing you out of your pliant doze.

This is where you should tell him you're done, to leave you to rest, something.

The words don't come. One wide, strong hand lays open against your navel, and you feel it burning like hot coals all through your body. Back arching, your head presses more firmly against Jake behind you.

And Jake just shushes you again, his voice stirring your hair.

Gripping the sides, you shift restlessly in the tub, unsure what you should do, what you want to do. Two very separate concepts as Jake rests his face against your hair, his breathing slow and steady in your ear as he shifts closer. Two fingers drag up the center of your chest, and you are so... It's outside your comprehension, and you groan helplessly.

"Your Majesty," Jake sighs against your cheek, soft as gossamer. It makes you shudder, nails against the unforgiving porcelain of the tub.

There is a complete lack of surprise in your body when his hand finally skips lower and gives your dick an exploratory, light stroke. He presses in closer, lips brushing so light against your jaw. From afar, you worry about his new robes, but the thought dissolves as he finally reaches further down your body and grips your dick boldly.

The shudder you let loose is entirely involuntary, your legs stretching out, rebending, making the water skip and slosh loudly. Starting to bend forward almost protectively, you're stopped by Jake's other hand, curling around your shoulders and holding you back as he strokes you with a tight grip.

You reach up and grab his hand with a tense gasp. He tucks in closer to you, mouth open against your neck as he sucks in deep breaths, his hand picking up a fast, unforgiving rhythm. The snap of his wrist, the way he squeezes the tip of your dick, makes you jerk and moan, and by the fucking stars, if someone walks in now, it'd be a disaster.

You let out a muffled whimper, and get a kiss on your temple in return. Before long your hips are rocking up into his hand, entirely without your input. It's good, it's so good, you don't know why its happening but you're greedy and selfish and say nothing, letting Jake jerk you faster each time.

It doesn't take long for you to go tense all over, one hand lifting and smacking down against the rim of the tub, eyes fluttering as you come against Jake's hand. It's too hot and you can barely breathe for a long moment.

With a strangled noise, you sink back against Jake, head lolling, eyes closed. As you exhale, it comes out a tenuous sigh.

A hand brushes your hair back from your eyes. His nails catch the damp strands over your forehead and tuck them behind your ear. Just the tenderness makes you shiver to your bones.

When you dare, you open your eyes just a narrow slit.

Jake sees, unfooled, and smiles. "When you're ready," he says quietly, "we'll get you to bed, sire."

You nod, and shut your eyes again, laying your head back down as you wait for it to stop spinning. As you do, you feel the back of his fingers dragging against your arm, to and fro, a languid sleepy motion that threatens to lull you further.

Some indeterminate time later, he insists: "Come on, Your Majesty."

You follow on shaking doe legs, letting Jake dry you off and wrap you in your robe before guiding you back to your room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> am literally falling asleep as i sit here, so pardon any particularly egregious errors and typos. i'll fix them when i'm conscious again.
> 
> (it just took me five tries to spell "conscious")
> 
> ETA: okay i think i caught all the worst errors


	6. valerian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **revised:** 11 july 2017

For a while, you let yourself think you have everything under control and under wraps, trusting in Jake's discretion and in your own impenetrability. That last up until you take your next meeting with the Master of Grain, who is bringing you up to speed on Skaia's stores so you will know how long this winter can last.

The conversation is a common one, and you'll keep having it periodically through this season. It's a part of your life but has always given you a feeling of dread. This cycle is fairly set in stone, and yet this part gives you a very distinct sensation, like being in the bottom of an hourglass filling with sand, the pressure on all sides growing heavier with each day. In the end, its up to you to flip the hourglass again.

But regardless, this time it's a new point of worry. As the Master of Grain collects her notes to leave, she says in a conversational tone, "I can't help but notice you've favored one of your handmaidens."

You're just putting your pen in the inkpot and miss, the delicate nib bouncing against the desk. You whip up a hand to grab and replace it, then drag your thumb over the indent you've created.

She gives you a look, just a slight widening around the eyes. If nothing else, your fumbling has probably just confirmed her worst suspicions. Dammit. "I hope it wasn't meant to be a secret. It's hard not to notice one of your Holy Retinue suddenly swathed in a  _very_ fine robe that matches his eyes."

It's not as though you didn't know that, but... in a way, you hoped no one would notice? Or would turn a blind eye. There are already so many aspects of your life that people don't discuss in polite company. You'd hoped this would be another one.

You stand as she prepares to leave. "Then you disapprove," you say quietly, inordinately proud of how your voice _does not_ shake.

"Forgive me, Your Majesty, but you misunderstand. I don't have an opinion on the matter. Only that..." She shrugs. "You have always been slow to trust. And this handmaiden has been here barely a season. It makes me wonder what he's done to ensure a place so close to your side."

Now you feel like your visitor is fishing for gossip. It turns your embarrassment to stone; what Jake has done is far outside the boundaries of what you'll share with anyone.

It's been a little while since Candlenights, since Jake put you to bed to sleep like the dreaming dead, wrung out like a rain-soaked towel. Only in the morning did the gravity of what happened fall upon you.

For a while, you let yourself believe it was some hazy fantasy brought on by too much cordial and the heat of the baths. But two days later, Jake showed up swathed in rich greens, holding a bundle of firewood to replenish your room supply.

You looked at his soft, indulgent smile and _knew_.

And... made a tactical retreat to your bedroom.

You intend to make a similar retreat from the Master of Grain now, because discretion and valor, et cetera. Before you manage, she holds up a hand, practiced and calm.

"My only concern is for you," she says. "It'll be spring soon."

She's right. The spectre of your upcoming sacrifice is looming ever more heavily over you. In a way, the matter of Jake is a distraction from what you know is coming. You can delude yourself into thinking that's why you're so drawn in by him, rather than the plain facts that he's... terribly attractive and kind as a gloved hand proffered.

The shadow of spring casts long over your life. With the cold truly settled in over Skaia, you sometimes think you can feel the bones of your spine twinge in pain, the way your neck looks for a knife sometimes.

It's too soon by at least a month, and you spend hours with your hand curled around the scar, your choker left aside with your crown as you try to use your fingertips to drag the ache out.

It thrums along anyway, more solid and heavy than the actual choker, a constant reminder that has you distracted. Even the memory of Jake's mouth against your cheek and his hands on you, the way he held you in place as he took care of you-- there's still a curl of fire in your chest when you think back to it, but it's eroding away under the pressure of your scar.

The worst part is that as you focus on it, even as your fingers trace the imperfection in your skin, more time slips through your fingers. Days escape the gaps in your grasp, and you find the sun setting too soon. The drip of hours into the freezing sunset keeps coming faster and faster.

It's an unpleasant sword suspended from the canopy over your bed, and before long, you stop sleeping.

There's no immediate change. It starts as late nights spent by the fireplace and out on the balcony. Then, startled wakefulness in the twilight hours when you should really be asleep. They compound and reinforce, until you wake one morning late in the afternoon, _unforgiveably_  late, and...

You don't go back to sleep again.

A familiar bad habit fallen like lead on your shoulders. You face the rising dawn with a grimace, and try not to feel somewhat bolstered by the realization you'll be the first to breakfast with your advisors.

At first, you can tilt the mirror and morph this into a benefit, distort it until its a positive. But another day passes, and another night passes, and all you have to show for it is scratched lines along your neck and the beginning of a truly sick feeling in your gut. Your head is clouded and vaguely aching, and your stomach turns at the very thought of food.

A tremor makes its home in the marrow of your bones, and you lie awake, teeth grit, eyes scratchy, and pray to every god you can name to _let you sleep_.

One night, you doze, blissfully unconscious for a few hours, only to jolt away from a dream of a winter that never ends, dagger ice reaching up from the ground, down from the eaves, pressing in until you are pinned like a butterfly.

You shakily lower your hand from where you were somehow scratching at your neck in your sleep. Which is fitting; you imagine it was that which brought on the nightmare. Your own damn self-brutality.

Swinging your legs over the side of your bed, you brace yourself on one of the posts to haul yourself upright. Initially, your head spins, and you lean your cheek against the smooth wood until the spell passes.

This can't go on. You have responsibilities.

This can't go on. You don't _want_  it to.

In your right mind, you would not shuffle out of your room, across moonlit stone floors. You wouldn't open your chamber door and catch the attention of one of your standing guards.

"In the bower," you tell the knight, holding securely onto the doorknob. "There is a handmaiden. Jake. I would request his presence." But that doesn't sound dire enough. You grit your teeth and suck in a stuttered breath. "Urgently."

The knight nods her head and bows to you before leaving.

You waste no time retreating back into your rooms, sitting in an armchair. Your eyes shut the second your back hits the chair, and it should be so easy to just fall back asleep. You can feel the intense weariness in your bones, in your chest, in the way you can count your own heartbeats, slow and ill-timed.

You don't sleep, but you lose track of time for a while. And of your composure, your entire body perking up as the door opens, hopeful and desperate.

The knight has returned. "Your Highness. The Matron says Penitent English is visiting his family. He's not in the bower."

Your heart skips forward, then falls again, a seasick vessel in your ribs.

"I see," you say. "Thank you."

Sleep eludes you for the rest of the night, leaving you to your thoughts.

They are not hospitable.

 

* * *

 

There is an almost hysteric fear to losing track of time so thoroughly. You don't know how long you've been awake, only that it's too long, enough to make you unwell. Through the next day, you are dizzy enough that just going down for your advisor meeting is a great trial, and you shamefully cancel the rest of your tasks for the day to retreat back to your rooms, where you can be pathetic in peace and privacy.

This has to stop. You cannot take care of Skaia this way. When the time comes, in a month or two, you will be unable to face it like this.

And yet, the sun sets again, and you laugh at the sight.

It's not particularly funny. That doesn't seem to matter.

That night, you don't bother with your bed. Instead, you keep the fire going and sit in your best armchair, head laid against the winged back. It's all you can handle.

You go away to a quiet place for a while; you have to sit still or the seasick feeling will return and attack you, and you're too tired to hold it off. You count your breaths until your lose that count and have to start over again. Several times over.

The fireplace has started to wither a little when the door opens. You... should see who it is, but your eyelids feel as heavy as iron bars, and you're trapped behind them. The thought makes your heart beat faster, and moan against the nausea that crashes into you.

While you try to stabilize it, you feel someone nearby.

Someone who is bold enough to take your face in his hands, thumbs rubbing over your cheeks. "Hell's bells and choirs, what state have you put yourself in?"

The sound of Jake's voice takes a moment to penetrate the opaque fog that's seized your mind, but you're so relieved to hear him. Your eyes flutter, but are still so heavy, you can only sigh out. "'Ke," you breathe, barely the start of a sound in your throat.

"It's me." His thumbs run over your face. It feels incredible. "The moment I got back, someone flagged me down and said you'd wanted to see me." A hand runs through your hair. "Sire?"

"Can't sleep," you mumble, marble-mouthed.

"For how long?"

"Days," you say with a hiccup of a laugh. Which must be technically right. You know a few days have passed since this started. You just don't know how many.

"Stars and fucking pillars, why didn't--" He stops, hard, and you're finally able to open your eyes enough to look at him. His eyes are very close and very vivid. Beautiful and reassuring. You don't often understand where Jake's ability to lead you and sort you out comes from, but you need it. Oh, you need it now.

"That's very flattering," Jake says, and you've apparently been saying a few of these things out loud. "I like your eyes too, Your Majesty." You feel his lips soft against your forehead and for a second imagine that alone could hold your heavy head up. "Shhh, just relax. We'll sort you out."

He lets you go, and you fall back against the wing of the chair. "Jake..."

One of his warm, steady hands squeezes yours. "Here. Just relax. Just a moment."

He leaves you, and that is finally the incentive you need to open your eyes. It takes longer to focus, double vision folding together into something recognizable. You loll your head to look at him as he stands by the fire, throwing more logs on and prodding the coals with a poker to stoke the flames.

Soon, he puts the poker away and starts patting down his pockets, muttering to himself. "Lavender? I don't have it and it'll never work on its own... What else is there... Blast it, if I'd known, I'd have... no matter."

In the midst of his chatter, he unearths one of his little canisters. To your distant, sleepy surprise, he takes off the lid and tosses the entire contents into the fire.

The smell comes on slowly, but its strong. Like a taste in the air, pushing against you, resisting. It's a thick, vaguely citrus scent, the second cousin to lemon, a pen pal to bergamont.

Jake sits on the arm of your chair. "I'm surprised you know what bergamont is, you tea heathen." His fingers trace the soft, bruised swell under your eyes with a disapproving click of his tongue. "Oh, sire. What am I to do with you."

You hum and lean your face into his hand. "You were gone."

"My Grandma wanted me home for a few days, that's all." His thumb runs up the length of your nose before sweeping sideways, tracing the line of your brow. "You should be laying down."

You hum again, and Jake laughs. "Okay, come on. Let's get you horizontal."

This sounds like a terrible idea to you, but Jake is insistent, and his hands are as steady as you are wavering on your feet, guiding you along to the chaise by the window. When he lets you, you sink down with all your weight, bracing yourself to keep from falling backward. One of his hands clench in your shirt, and he helps you lay back.

"Budge over," he orders, and you move your legs to give him room.

He sits by your hip, and resumes trailing his fingers over your face again.

The smoke from the fireplace fills your lungs, big bellows of tinted air, rich with something that lingers like fine dust over your skin, your senses. As it sinks in, you open your eyes again.

Jake lifts an eyebrow at you. "Valerian's meant to put you to sleep, not wake you up again."

He's wearing your gift, rich green spilled like an overturned glass down your side, off the sofa. He holds one of your hands on his lap, petting the back of your hand idly. Your fingers twitch and weakly curl in his skirt. When he notices, he shifts like he's about to stand. "Are you cold?"

You are, but you'd rather handle that minor discomfort than let him go. You shake your head.

Jake's eyes flick over your features, reading something there. "What brought this on, Your Majesty?"

You shut your eyes. "Spring's coming," you say simply, too tired to manage anything further.

"Oh." His hand tightens on yourself. That same gentle touch runs over your brow again. "It'll be alright. You're always alright."

You huff out a hollow laugh. "No, m'not." His hands all still and you shudder, sick but finally on the edge of desperately needed sleep. "Stay. Til m'sleep."

You can hear the hard exhale from his mouth, and feel how he scoots further onto the sofa. He tosses some of his robe over your legs, hand coming to rest on your hip, rubbing comfortingly. "Rest, Dirk."

There is not an ounce of resistance in your body. You sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> directly inspired by my own sleepless night, ngl.
> 
> also city suggested the valerian. i actually hate the smell of the stuff, but that's me. i'm sure for other people, it's perfectly fine.
> 
> once again, not beta'ed. i'll look it over in the morning. /YAWNS


	7. cherry wine

You've often wished for a longer winter, to let the cold months stretch like some great bird's incredible wingspan, held aloft over your head in protection. The growing sense of dread is not new to you. The desire to hold out against the cold has always been purely selfish; no one wants to die.

That's not to say this year is any less selfish. Selfish in a different way. It's the first time you've had someone sequestered in the heart of winter with you, and it's a novel luxury you can barely stand, so fearful you are of scaring it away.

Still. The day comes like it always does, when your advisors tell you in quiet, sorrowful voices that Skaia has endured the cold as long as it can. The season has to break.

It's a careful choice of words, as if the season had any agency or initiative in the matter. _You_  have to break it.

With that dire message in mind, you return to your rooms, unsure what to do but knowing where you want to be. Before, your quarters were just a place to sleep and to keep your things. Now, there is something a good deal more companionable.

Pushing open the door, you find your usual visitor in the drawing room. He sits on the ottoman at the foot of your favorite chair, the fireplace lively and popping over his shoulder. On the table appears to be some part of his kit: mortar and pestle, corked glass jars with variously colored powders, a sheet of parchment underneath to catch the falling dust.

As you enter, Jake looks up and smiles at you. "Evening, Your Majesty."

"Evening, Jake," you reply amiably, trying not to let it show how much you enjoy having someone to say it too. The increasing familiarity of shared space is exhilarating. Technically speaking, Jake began hovering around in your orbit more often ostensibly to assist you with your insomnia. Reducing your stress, helping you get to sleep.

If you were a decent man, you'd recognize how unfair your favoritism is, how often you let Jake take lead in his service to you. There has been a gradual exclusion of many of the other handmaidens, at least in your chambers. A few you've seen giving Jake somewhat cold looks, which make you feel even more guilty. (Surely they should give _you_  those cold looks, it's your fault after all.) But thankfully, you've seen others who smile and greet Jake warmly.

When you've asked, Jake has brushed off your concerns. "Not worth a haypenny of fretting."

Selfish as you are, you let him convince you.

For the moment, you leave Jake to whatever he's working on tonight, retreating to your inner chambers to remove your crown and unclip your cloak, removing your outer layers and dressing down. It's something you wouldn't dream of doing with any other guest, but you feel... to some extent, this is the holy ideal of the entire handmaiden concept. It must be, to feel so proper and good.

You take your time changing, getting ahold of yourself and squashing any more asinine thoughts like that before returning to the sitting room.

Jake's humming to himself as he taps powders into the stone bowl, pestle held in his spare hand. After adding his ingredient, he begins rocking the pestle firmly into the mixture.

"You seem to have a project," you remark quietly.

"Idle hands are no use to anyone." He gives you a small smile. "Just a little something to help certain individuals with their terrible sleeping habits.

"Is that so." You face is coloring. You turn away from him to busy yourself drawing the curtains shut. The sun is down, and the uncovered windows will only leech the valueable heat from the room. You move to toss another log on the fire, noting the carvings worked into the heart of the wood, a charm for longevity to lengthen the burn. With your back to Jake, you say, "Whoever has earned your generosity should consider themselves blessed."

Jake chuckles, low and kindling. "I don't doubt they do."

Yes, your ears are definitely burning now. You keep watching the fire, and so notice the pot suspended over the flames. "What's this?"

"Oh. Pot of glühwein. Just keeping it warm." You glance back at him, and he frowns slightly. "I was going to have it ready to serve up before you arrived but..." He holds up one of his hands, layered in a fine coating of dust, darker collections of dust in the lines and scars of his hands, darkening his nailbeds. "Bit of a mess."

You look back at the pot. This close, you can smell it over the scent of the fire and the herbs thrown into the cinders. Wine and spices, long left to integrate together into something nice.

There's a long row of drinkware on the mantle. You pull two mugs with wide handles closer to you, then lift the lid from the pot with a quilted mitt, setting it on the stone hearth at your feet.

"Dirk-" Jake starts.

A shiver runs down your spine. You pick up a ladle and one of the mugs. "You're quite occupied, Jake. I can handle this."

There's a soft chuff of air behind you. This is something of a turnaround, coming purely from having Jake at a disadvantage. Normally, he not only serves dutifully but seems to anticipate the things you'll want, taking care of them before they come to mind. It still gives you an uneasy mixed feeling; the inherent guilt of having anyone in your service remains, but slowly you can feel yourself warming to the attention, especially when it's Jake taking care of you.

It _should_  feel childish or juvenile. But more and more, Jake makes it... not juvenile at all. Something else altogether.

You clear your throat as you fill up the mugs with glühwein, already looking forward to the Harley House recipe. Replacing the lid first, you carry both mugs over to the table. "My family always avoided making glühwein correctly. My older brother was the sort of patriarch of the family, and he preferred spiced cider."

"I could make that for you tomorrow, if you like," Jake murmurs, not actually looking up at you yet. As you set the mugs down, Jake carefully empties his stone bowl directly into one palm. The powder is a uniform, earthy color now, and he starts to shape it between his hands. It clumps, and forms a solid pieces as he pats it and rolls it between his palms. It morphs into a cone about an inch high, imperfect but solid as he sets it aside with a satisfied nod.

He looks up at you, eyebrows lifted, and you start. "No. Thank you. I was never terribly fond of cider, and we also had apple juice in summer and autumn."

"I understand. My gran used to drink ginger and ginseng tea every day, and now I can scarce stand the smell of it."

Nodding, you take your seat behind him. You can't recall the last time you've been able to put your feet up on the ottoman. There was a calf rub Jake gave you a while ago, with your feet in his lap, but that doesn't count. As it is, now he always takes it as his seat despite the other perfectly serviceable chairs around the table. It always leaves you strangely hyperaware of him around you.

The drink is piping hot and your first sip is a careful, small one, more inhalation than taste. It's not a grape wine, to your surprise, but a blood-dark cherry wine. It's difficult to tell when everything has obviously been muddling together for hours on end, but you can taste the cloves and cinnamon, so common and familiar. There's maybe vanilla as well, and anise. There's a tartness that makes you think of lemon peel too. You know there's more, could even be more medicinal things thrown in to help bolster against the harsh cold and what it does to the body, but you're not sure what exactly.

After a bigger sip, you think you taste maple. That's different and sweet.

You stop trying to pick out the details and just enjoy the mulled result, watching Jake's hands for a while as he forms another little incense cone. He has a row of them by now, proud little peaks on the edge of the parchment.

When he's cleared the stone bowl, he leans in to the mug where it sits on the table, reaching for it before stopping, frowning at his messy hands. With the back of one finger, he spins the handle away from him, then presses his wrists against the mug, moving it before jerking back. "Ow, still hot."

"What are you doing?" you ask.

"Trying _not_ to make a tremendous mess of things," he replies briskly, waggling his fingers. "I don't want to go wash up when I have more of these little blighters to make anyway."

You sit up, reaching past him to put your mug down and pick up his. You're not thinking this through, and even as you realize that, you squash the thought down. You don't want to think about this. Just pick up his drink and say, "Here, let me."

Jake half turns to you, giving you an intrigued look as he shifts of the ottoman close to you. "His Majesty is very solicitous tonight."

You don't say anything to that just yet. Instead, there are logistics to sort out as you try to help Jake manage a sip of his own family drink. As you hold the mug securely for him, he smiles and leans in to blow across the rim, the faint steam curling away. He pressed his forearm against yours, bracing you to hold still as he bends.

You feed him just a careful sip at first, then a second deeper one, the faint pressure of his arm guiding you to tip the mug enough for each drink.

His eyes close as he swallows, and it's an affecting sight this close. You take a steadying breath. "You could call me Dirk. I mean, if you wanted to. More often, when we're-- when it's just us."

His eyes flick back up, staring up into yours. His hand lowers, and you take the mug, set it aside with a clunk. Pushing yourself back into your chair, you pull your cloak more firmly around yourself. "Forget I mentioned it."

"Beggin' pardon, but no," Jake says curtly. He leans forward, obviously trying to catch your eyes. You keep them averted. "Sire."

You lay your head back, gaze lifting to the ceiling. "If that's the case, I have to ask... I'm incredibly grateful to you for... a tremendous number of things by now."

Jake sighs, turning back to the table and his work, and it's such a dismissal you feel a real hurt in your chest. Your voice falters, and you look at the back of his head, his thick dark hair that catches firelight like black glass. "I just..." You swallow, trying to gather yourself. "I don't understand. I fear not repaying you properly, is all. If you wished for anything, I- it would be no trouble."

Jake shakes his head softly, and you feel a chill spread through you before you can get a grip. You look to the fire again. unsure what to say.

In your periphery, you watch Jake work, making another set of incense cones before he gingerly stands, walking to the basin to clean his hands.

If he elected to gather his things and leave, you would not be at all surprised. It's what you deserve.

Instead, he plucks up one of his incense cones and sets it on the table. Marching over to the fireplace, he takes a long match and lights it, then walks the flame back to his incense and lights it. When it catches, he blows it out, leaving the first curls of smoke to settle into a long gray ribbon that stretches up before dissipating outward.

As he watches it, he holds the match, still lit.

"Jake," you start, cautious.

He shakes his head again, and waves the match at you, flame clinging to life against the jostling. "You already asked me about this. We've done this already. And you think I'm here for some reward?"

You drop your gaze to his feet. Only now, you see his soft boots are tucked under the other chair. His feet are clad only in slippers. It's... somehow significant. Domestic. Homey. You lean your face into one of your hands, embarassed.

Hearing Jake blow out his match, you shut your eyes. Really, it'd be a mercy if he left you to your own devices. Broken, futile devices that get you nowhere.

He sighs, so loud it breaks the quiet of the room. "You can be so _frustrating._  You-- You are... completely unaware of what it's like to do this, even after all this time, even after me sitting here throwing everything in my _considerable_  wheelhouse at your feet, you just lock up like a treasure box and I am going to keep picking that lock until you stop clamming it shut every time I turn my back, Your Majesty, I really will."

You cannot work up the courage to look at him, hiding in the false safety of your eyelids. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to do this."

"Don't mean to..." Jake trails off, and this time, his sigh is softer. "That... is not what I meant. Perhaps I'm not being clear? I thought I was, but." He moves, and you can hear the rustle of his robes. "Are you hiding, sire?"

You shake. "I. Uh."

Your hands are firmly pulled to your knees, Jake's pressing them flat, warm palms holding you still. There's a tremor in your spine aching to shake loose, and the tension winds ever tighter in you. "Listen. Dirk."

You open your eyes, and find him kneeling in front of you. As you meet his eyes, he smiles.

"There you are." His thumbs rub against your hands. "And here you are, sitting and thinking that, what, you're such a bloody hardship to steer?" As you watch, he lifts one to his mouth, his lips against your knuckles, moving with each word. "I bring everything I have to bear because I _want_  to. Not because I need to if I want to handle you. Barring the times you fret yourself half to death, you're not nearly so difficult." He kisses your hand, and that shiver breaks loose finally. Jake feels it, and grins. "I don't think I need my bag of tricks at all, really. It's just nice to see you relaxing for once, and by the fucking sun, that seems to require alchemic intervention, let's be honest here."

"Then..." Holding his gaze is like carrying an iron weight, but stopping is unthinkable. "I'm appreciative. I'm glad you're here and you offer anything to me. I just don't know what you get from it, and I-- I want to repay you."

Jake huffs out a breath, warm against your hand. "Says the man who barely stands the trappings of his station, the gifts and the festivals and the offering day."

"I don't mind offering day," you point out fast. When Jake gives you a suspicious eyebrow lift, you have to add, "I mean, it's when we met."

"That's very sweet," Jake says, his other hand rubbing up and down your thigh. "Avoiding my point though."

"I don't _see_  your point," you say, half pleading.

Jake's mouth works for a moment, abortive half-syllables in his mouth. He groans, and presses your hand to his face, shaking his head. "Your Majesty. Oh, hell's bells, Your Majesty. You are a good and gracious man, and a pretty fever dream besides, but _please_." He looks up at you again, eyes beseeching. "Pay _attention_ , for cripes' sake."

He turns your hand, grip tight, and presses his lips against the ball of your thumb, the heel of your hand, and the soft span of skin below your wirst where your pulse races. He drags your other in, pushing your fingers against his hair, and kisses your pulse again, more firmly.

"Jake," you breath, strained.

"D'you get it yet, Prince Strider?" His eyes are fierce, something akin to pain in the corners, and he inhales sharply. You brush his hair back, wanting to-- to help, to soothe somehow. He leans into your touch. "You want to repay me, right?"

"Jake," you say again, just as useless and swept up in this.

He presses one splayed hand against your chest and urges you back against the chair. "Lay back and breathe deep for me."

There is not an ounce of you that doesn't want to obey, and your sprawl in your chair is devoid of posture or grace, but it's what Jake wants. Touching him seems to be allowed, thankfully, and you drag both your hands against his hair as he gets closer to you. Your legs are shouldered apart, and he's solid and warm and desperately close.

The pressure on your stomach increases, and you breathe against it. There is definitely something in the air again, but you are too distracted to pick out anything. Only that it's nice. It's very good, and rich, catches on your tongue as you inhale and sigh deeply out.

"Shut your eyes again," Jake tells you. "Keep them shut for me."

You don't want to. As your handmaiden insinuates further in, you want to see this part, the tension sparking through you like the pop of fire breaking. But Jake's hand drags down from your stomach to your waist, two fingers hooking boldly in your pants. Your head slumps back, eyes closing as your fingers clench in his hair.

"That's it. It's easy, isn't it," Jake murmurs, tugging and pulling at your clothes. "You are always giving me everything, what more could I  _ask_  for?"

There is a strong chance you're going to open your mouth and say something to ruin this again, because it doesn't fit into your head, this idea that _you_  would be so worthwhile somehow, but Jake mercifully doesn't give you the chance. There's no discussion or preamble as he finds the line of your dick through the loose pants and squeezes it; you press your head more firmly against the chair, voice stuck in your throat.

Even without looking, you feel him lean into you, fingers still twined in his hair. It's an effort not to pull too hard as he makes room for himself, drapes his body over your lap.

One hand splays over your chest, holding you in place. The other wraps around your dick and holds it still as you feel the rush of his breath, and then the hot wet flick of his tongue.

You gasp for air, breath deep, and roll your head back against the chair, gasping as Jake wets your dick with his mouth with diligent laps of his tongue, every third swipe tucking the head between his lips for a slow suck.

Hard in seconds, you wrap your legs around his back and feel your head loll. "Jake... oh, shit, Jake--" You can feel him hum in response, and you shudder all over.

It's the smoke or it's the long held breath of tension between you or it's the blood hot press of his tongue against the underside of your dick or its just the way his hair drags thick through your fingers as you pet him with greedy hands, but you're coming apart so fast, you don't have time to brace yourself. A scatter of hitched gasps fills the room as you squeeze your eyes shut, trying so hard to do what he asks. He asks so little of you, you fucking _ache_ to get this right, to do anything he wants.

You wish he wanted _more_ from you, just so you could fall over yourself to give it up. It's an irresistible pull, something wrapping around the cage of your ribs. All he would have to do is say the word, and there's little you wouldn't do.

Which makes the fact he wants so little of you so painful.

Jake slides you in and out of his mouth steady and inexorable, and you want to look, just a glimpse. Just something to make this feel more real, to remember it by.

As your will teeters, he swallows around you, letting out a groan like you're some kind of ambrosial treat, the sound shivering around you. With a choke cry, you bend, eyes tight shut, pulling his hair too hard, knees lifting to bracket him in. "Unh, Jake, Jake, _fuck_."

He pushes you unceremoniously back against the chair and swallows around you until you're done and left a shaking, juttering mess.

With a thump, your feet drop limply back to the floor. Hands petting through his hair, you try to silently apologize for losing your composure and pulling so hard.

He drags his tongue against you languidly one more time before sitting back. As he does, he catches one of your wrists, and presses a kiss to your palm. Against your thumb. The vulnerable skin along the inside of your arm.

Drowsy, you still manage to catch a grip in his robe and pull. "Please."

"Hm?"

"Come here, please," you say, pulling again. As soon as you realize you're doing it, asking for more from him-- but. You didn't ask for this. He did. He asked you to trust him and to breath deep and let him have you.

The idea starts to circle and settle in like a jungle cat.

"Of course, Your Majesty," he says, his voice rough and worn in a way that makes an aftershock shudder through you. "Oh. Did you keep your eyes closed?"

You nod and pull again. "You said."

"I did," Jake agrees, and sounds impressed. It warms you to your core, and you are too unwound and open to keep from moaning softly. "Oh, _Dirk._ You are so very, very good at this."

Such a simple thing still has you feeling like you're going to shiver apart, the intensity of the gratitude that washes over you. But Jake finally follows you, and climbs up into your lap, kneeling. He's solid as stone and heavy, keeping you from flying apart as he takes your face between his hands and kisses your open mouth.

It's dreamy and easy like this when you're held in place and safe. Everything else in the world is so far away, outside the bounds of your winged chair and the barricade of his body. He takes his time exploring your mouth, his hips rocking in slow, demanding circles against you.

There isn't a thread of resistance. You let him in, and hold his hips as he frots and rocks, wanting to take everything he'll give you and have him swallow you whole in return. It's just so fucking _easy_.

He comes with just an harder press of his hips, groaning into your mouth, kissing you through it, fingers tight and keeping you close. You want to drown in the sound and the feeling, and never come out.

And he's there so long, coming down and just lazily licking around your mouth, it could be forever. Time's a long since abandoned concept.

A decade later, Jake parts, still close enough that his lips brush yours as he says, "You can open your eyes."

Can you? It's nice to have permission, but the method might be lost. You lean your head on his shoulder, and feel him kiss your ear. "C'mon. It's late. As lovely as it is to have you in this state, it's bedtime."

You lick your lips, imagining you can taste some remnant of his kissing. The tartness of cherries. Spices. Heat. "If you insist."

"I do," he says, and climbs off you. He takes your hands and pulls you upright.

He cups your cheek, brushing a thumb over your eyelashes. "Open your eyes."

You do, blurrily staring at his face, the kiss-bruises around his lips, and heavy affection in his eyes. It's a hard thing to imagine, that you were responsible for that. Like everything that happened since you closed your eyes was someone else. But you know how he kisses, and how he feels as he comes against you, and its indelible in your mind.

He tucks you errant hair behind your ear. "Thank you."

A thousand things come to mind. But now, with a warm satisfaction settling over you, now you have the correct answer: "You're welcome."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /falls the fuck asleep. I'LL FIX TYPOS IN THE MORNING.


	8. blood and frost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you've been following this fic you can maybe guess what's to come but just in case: warning for impermanent death
> 
> suggested listening for this chapter is [Metric's "Blindness"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=spqgpkobEh4). tho my actual writing soundtrack was Josh Ritter's "Folk Bloodbath" lol i'm the worst

You are the first sovereign of Skaia to wear your crown around your neck.

The choker is an ornate piece wrought by the guildmasters of town, a collaboration treat like the most sacred duty. As you're given to understand, then new priesthood watched over each step in the process, and the high enchanter's throat when hoarse with all the incantations they spoke over forge and loom. The result was a band that fits around your neck like you were born wearing it, solid and unmoving, heavy but comfortable. Every morning you put it on, and every night you take it off, and find it leaves no bruise or indent against your skin.

You feel it all the time, but its never uncomfortable. Just present.

It has a purpose. It's a sign of your station, a gift in return for what you do.

It also shields the ugly scar that's been reopened again and again, so no poor Skaian has to see the gash that bisects their prince's head from his shoulders.

You don't blame them terribly for that. You see the scar every day. It's not a sight you'd visit on them.

But the point is, this morning.

This morning, you pull yourself out of bed and to the basin in your room to splash warm water on your face (the basin carved with warming charms, one of the finest gifts you ever received from a penitent). As water drips from your face, you look up at your reflection in the mirror.

The line around your neck has grown pale and unassuming. The scar tissue has finished knitting over the wound. It's still a clear line that would catch the eye, but it's healed.

You reach up and trace the pale pink line with your fingers, following it from the temple of your tendons and the apple of yours throat, around the circumference of your neck, and finding it whole and repaired, all the way back to its start.

The mirror is cold against your forehead as you lean against it, eyes shut.

You've put it off enough. Now, you know it's time.

The first time you did this, it was after a feast in the grand hall, where you sat on the throne and were given wine and freshly cooked meats and sweet desserts. Some of which you even ate; your stomach was clenched tight with nausea and a teetering mixture of resignation and fear. The smallest bites had you sick, but everyone was staring at you with hope and pity and _relief_ , so much relief. Finally, winter would come to an end. Finally, Skaia would thaw. Children would be allowed to play outside again, and the careful rationing of food and firewood would end, and people could live again.

The feast had been the end of a long hibernation and the last gasp of the kingdom's sorrow.

But that was a long time ago.

If you had to do a feast every time, you'd lose your damn mind. Instead, you dress in your warmest clothes and make a pot of tea in the sitting room, call for breakfast.

Your nightguard enters, and you see the barest flinch of recognition on their face as they see you sitting in your chair, their eyes flicking to the bare expanse of your neck and away again.

"Your Majesty?" they ask, and it's a much larger question than two words would imply.

You nod. "Call for breakfast. Make the arrangements. I'd like to leave before the morning bustle."

There's a stillness. It's not true hesitation; they aren't going to protest. But they do take the time to fold their hand against their breast and bow deeply. "Your Majesty."

It's, again, a much larger statement than two words would imply. You nod, and look back to your tea.

You have time. Not a lot, but some.

After you finish breakfast, you thank the handmaiden who brought it, offering her a smile for the way her hands shake as she gathers everything back up again.

She wishes you luck, and then looks mortified with herself.

There's nothing lucky about it.

Alone again, you return to your rooms long enough to retrieve your cloak and the crown saved for this day.

The crown has been passed through the hands of Skaian royalty for countless generations. It's not the modest circulets or small helms that you tend to favor. It's design is not up to you and will never change.

The Crown of Winter is a great heavy diadem with white gold and crystal and sapphire, the colors of Skaia. The color of blue skies that the kingdom has not seen in months now. Placed on your head, it suits you terribly, the colors washing you out and flattening your hair in unflattering ways. You used to take the time to make the Crown work for you, but now can't really be bothered.

The cloak is much nicer. It's perhaps the finest thing you own, the sort of thing you could have only dreamed of when you were younger, before you were royalty. This is the only day you wear it, leaving it on the same stone bust as the Crown for the rest of the year.

It was a gift. Before the creation of the Offering Day. You think it was a birthday gift. The cloak is the wingspan of a great bird, long feathers delicately stitched into the softest fabric that's ever brushed your skin, warm but flyaway-light. You latch it securely around your neck to keep it from fluttering off at the first breeze.

The wings tuck around you, stretching far enough to cover your arms. Pinions of black and gold shimmer without light, as if woven with glowing threads.

The wings of an albatross, a good omen. The wings of a phoenix, quick to return.

You allow yourself one more moment in front of the mirror to steel your nerves. Then, it's time to go.

 

* * *

 

Once upon a time.

Once upon a time, there was a boy born to the name Strider, and it was his sixteenth birthday. Like every child in Skaia, his gift was an appointment with the High Seer in the House of Divination.

Before, children were sent at thirteen, until it was decided that the truths revealed by the High Seer were not always suitable for such young ears. So, when the boy went to visit the High Seer, he was older but little more prepared.

He sat at her table, in the overstuffed seat across from her as she looked him over. Her black-painted nails rested atop a crystal ball. The glossy sphere had a mount to sit in, but she didn't use it, instead let the ball roll across the velvet tabletop, walking it back and forth.

The boy coughed and waved some of the incense out of his face. The High Seer smiled.

Her palm rested on the crystal ball, stilling it, its faint glow peaking through her fingers. "Dirk Strider. When you die, it will be of a broken heart."

Every child in Skaia saw the High Seer and every child walked away with a gift.

 

  
Once upon a time.

Once upon a time, the kingdom of Skaia was locked in a deadly cycle with the terrors that lived beyond the castle walls. The manifestation of fear and horror, and for a small kingdom, nothing was more terrifying than unceasing winter. The fields frozen solid, the sun gone from the sky, the nights long, and the fires never warm enough.

The horror said to Skaia: _Send your kings and queens to us in the heart of the woods, and their blood will melt the ice._

Skaia fell into frost for a year with no respite until the Queen could bear the guilt and sorrow no more. Hopeless and freezing, she went out to the woods.

She never returned, but the sun did. It warmed Skaia and the kingdom came out of its icy slumber into a new spring.

But as it always must, winter came again, and it did not leave. The king went to the woods, and the frost broke.

For a long time, the cycle continued, until the royal family dwindled to nothing. Until the remaining royalty ran and hid. Until it was decided that exterminating a family was too cruel and another was chosen, given a crown, and named the Winter King.

The cycle continued.

 

  
Once upon a time.

Once upon a time, you stood in the town square, bundled up in your warmest clothes with a thick blanket wrapped around your shoulders in the seventh month of deep winter. Ahead, on a pedestal, was an older troll, holding a ball of fire tight to her chest to bolster her against the cold as she explained that the Crown had been found, but the chosen King had not.

There was no judgement in her voice. No one in the crowd blamed the King. No one could.

But now the time had come for someone to step up and to take the Crown for the sake of Skaia's future. Winter had dragged on too long and people would begin starving soon. The matron troll asked in a grave voice if anyone would like to pre-empt the lottery and take up the task.

You listened, and thought about the prophecy bound to your name. A long winter would awaken the grim curiosity in anyone, and you had spent a long time thinking about this. The Seer told you a broken heart would kill you. And while taking up the Crown was an act of civic duty and love, you didn't think that's what she meant.

Your fingers and toes frozen, your body succumbing to the slow poison of the season, you were curious.

And you stepped forward, and were made King.

 

* * *

  
Today, you walk out of the royal quarters and out into the streets of your kingdom. It's barely morning, just light enough through the thick grey cloud cover to denote the beginning of a new day. Lately, you've preferred doing this in the dawn or late night, when the streets are coldest and thus most empty. There is no need for a procession. For all the pomp and celebration around your station, you've insisted on putting that tradition to bed.

You much prefer it this way, just taking the walk yourself. No one bothers you. Of the few people out at this time, most are shopkeeps preparing for the day's business. Those who sold hot drinks and fresh bread to townspeople were warming ovens and cauldrons.

There are not many open eyes in the kingdom at this hour, but all of them catch on you. Every single person who sees you stops, and watches you pass by. In every face, you see the same meld of sorrow and relief. Hopefulness.

Today, you are not the Prince of Skaia, but the King. And you're a funeral procession of one.

Once or twice, a stall owner offers you their wares, something for the way. But you've eaten, and even if you hadn't, it's not going to matter soon. A few mouth their thanks to you and-- you avert your eyes. Even after all this time, it's too much.

At the outer walls, a group of guards awaits you. It's been a long time since you asked for any company out into the woods, but year after year, they gather just in case. It's a nice gesture.

You say nothing, just wait for them to drag the gates open, and move on.

As soon as you step into the woods, you let out a held breath, your head bowing, watching your own feet as you navigate the treacherous brambled roots and uneven earth.

Focusing on crunching through the snow makes it easier. As you journey deeper into the woods, the scattering of birdsong and movement of animals fades slowly away. The trees are dead and bare, but thick, and their arms blot out the grey light above. Shadows around you grow in size, then coalesce into shapes. Darkness with teeth and talons, a few that scrape against your body as you walk.

Privately, you smirk. It's a cold, hollow feeling, but seriously? You are walking to your death and the horror takes little cheap swipes at you as if it matters. It's petty, and you know why.

The manifestation of horror doesn't appreciate being declawed. Sometimes, you can't help being a little smug about it.

Eventually, the darkness grows so solid, you cannot see the world beyond your feet. And you continue to walk, one foot ahead of the other until your toe finally hits something other than dead earth.

A stone altar.

You look up at last. The Crown makes your neck ache a little, but it won't be for long.

A silence stretches. You wait it out.

Finally: **"YOU AGAIN."**

It's sound without origin, coming from every inky spot of blackness around you. You nod, and show your teeth. "Me again."

You step up onto the altar and kneel in the correct place. This is routine now. "I stand before you the King of Skaia, and offer my life upon your altar. May Winter die with me, and let my blood melt the ice."

There is movement around you; sound, but nothing else. You can't see anything beyond the altar, but know that whatever is out there (if it is even separate from the darkness, you think they might be the same thing honestly) is annoyed.

**"WE TIRE OF YOUR TRICKERY."**

There is not an ounce of fear in you. That's probably what has the shadowbeast so wiled up. It's not much of a sacrifice for them if you've gotten bored of shaking in your boots ages ago. Maybe that was what the horror got out of this initially, and you've spoiled its meal.

Well. You grew up in a Skaia that starved itself every winter to prolong the time before the sacrifice. You're running low on sympathy.

There is a sword hanging on your hip. You draw it, spinning the handle through your hand until you can grip it, hold it against your own neck. "Take your price or I'll do it for you and rob you of the satisfaction. Twelve months is a long time to wait for your next--"

The horror doesn't let you finish. Something enormous grips your hand and wrist and forearm, and the sword. It's not human in the slightest, just a mass of _something_. You have never figured out what, because this part is always the same. Time and time and time and time again.

Once upon a time.

Once upon a time, you shut your eyes against the darkness, knowing you would see it again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the next chapter should come very quickly


	9. rain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this is going to have some descriptions of injury. they are literally as oblique as possible because i don't like blood and gore, but this is still a heads up.

The sun throws odd shapes and colors across the sturdy wooden kitchen table, light shining through the mishmosh of bottles and jars on the shelves built into the window. Certain delicate materials thrive on sunlight, and in the depth of winter, they need as much as possible, even the pale grey variety that the whole kingdom's gotten accustomed to lately. As you sit and wait, you trace a few of the cast shadows that stretch over the table. Sprigs of goldweed and silverwood twigs darken the place settings, morphed and twisted in their path.

"And how fares your Prince then, Jake?" Grandma asks as she returns. In her gloved hands she's holding a small mincemeat pie, so warm from the oven it steams the air.

She always calls him _your Prince_ , even long before you were willing to admit the appellation fit the bill. Ever since you came back from that exhibition last year and couldn't stop running your mouth about the Prince's duel. You'd spoken with gusto, to be certain, but apparently too much, and before long everyone in the House was having a go at you for the avalanche of a crush you'd developed. Which meant the stately Matriarch of your House knew it before the day'd be put to bed.

It couldn't be helped, was the problem. Watching the divine Prince was, well, _divine._  You'd lucked out and gotten a nearly front row seat at the showing, close enough to get a good look at him.

And it was like a belt of abstinthe. The way he was this narrow slip of a man who leapt into motion like a dancer, feigns and strikes that had his knightly opponent on the ground in forfeit so swiftly, you mourned the end of the dance.

Plenty of the gals in town were sighing over the Prince, and you felt no shame in joining them!

Under the flight of fancy rose a stranger thought. As the crowd cheered and the Prince gave a stately bow, you caught the way he lightly shook his wrist and wondered if they hurt him.

But that was months ago now, and the good-natured jocularity in your Gran's voice was gone. Now, it was a much more serious question.

"Well enough, I think," you tell her, leaning your cheek on your fist. "He's in turns a menace to care for and docile as a lamb, if you know the puzzlebox combination. If I ask to do so much as make him a cup of tea, he hems and haws and buries it under all these misdirections and worries. But if I tell him I'm going to make him a damned cup, the fight goes out of him. Nevermind he's only fighting himself."

She takes up a sharp knife and cuts the pie into generous fifths, and slides one onto your plate. You like it best this way, so hot its molten, the rich juices seeping out as the pie cools enough to eat. "Any more sleeplessness?"

"Don't think so. I've been making sure he has some passiflora and chamomile tea at night, and that seems to calm his nerves." There's a ripple of inquiry in your voice as you explain, like there always is when you talk pharmalchemy with Grandma.

To your relief, she nods along, cutting her own pie slice and moving it to her plate. "No fuss over the taste?"

"The castle has plenty of honey, even this far from summer."

"Good." She sits across from you, and taps her fork against the top crust of the pie, breaking it into pieces and letting the flakes sink into the mince. "You're doing a bang up job, lad. Stepping up to take care of our home grown godling is no small feat. I don't see the man givin' time of day to any of the other houses like this."

You look down at your plate, and pick up your own fork. "I'm not doing it for that, Gran."

"Tch, I know, boy, I know. You go on and do this out of the goodness of your gold heart, like you have been. But there's no call to shun the benefits of being close to his inner circle."

 _Inner circle_. Dirk's inner circle is a line connecting two dots, as far as you can tell. It's something you can relate a little too keenly to, people looking at you and making assumptions like that.

"I'm just looking after you, boy," Gran says, waving her fork at you. "Making sure he's treating you well."

"Grandma," you whine.

Despite her teasing, it's a welcome respite from the castle. Not that you really want too much distance from it, not after what happened last time you were away. It's only that the mood in the castle has grown ever more tense, and every once in a while, it's nice to have the reminder that there is a place to go. There is no place like home.

After breakfast and afternoon tea, you gather your things, pawing through the family's storeroom for anything useful to tuck into your satchel. Like always, your mind spins through possibilities as you tap your fingers against every component and item.

Alchemy's a weird school of magic. There's witches and seers and enchanters and mages, but _alchemists_. They aren't _really_  magical. They're tradesfolk. The combination of components with a little arcane know-how could heal the sick, give futuresight, grant fortune and protection, but somehow it didn't count for the same thing as the bullfuckery the other guilds got up to.

Not that you're bitter about it. It's just odd. You pick up a bundle of arcane wood, thinking about what might be worth burning in the castle.

"Take some sleeping tinctures with you," Grandma says, watching you from the doorframe.

"He's not a child," you inform her.

"No, but you are. Don't work yourself into the ground, lad."

Fair point. You pluck up a few bottles to stow away before kissing her cheek. "I'll see you soon."

 

* * *

 

It's a long walk back to the castle. The walls of Skaia are long and wide, all the houses and shops and streets clustered inside. When you've spoken to traders and visitors, you've been told Skaia is dense, and outsiders often find themselves lost without a decent map. You were born and raised here, and barely take note of the twists and turns of the town. The journey between the castle and the Alchemy House is so familiar, you could sleepwalk it.

This time, though, you're pulled out of your reverie by the sheer number of people you see outside. Lately, it's been so cold, most folk stay indoors by the fire, huddled from the chill. When chores had to be done, one unlucky person would swaddle up in cloak and coat and boots to venture out.

Today, the streets are busy. It's closer to a picture of summer than winter, the way people are standing in small groups, talking excitedly. Smiling. Hugging.

Your steps slow as you walk pass a group loitering close to a hot cocoa cart.

A snippet of conversation: "Bless his name, I can't wait to see some proper sunlight again."

You're running before the words finish sinking in. Your feet pound against the stone paths. beyond the rooftops and spires, you can see the castle in the distance. From this side of town, it seems so far away. The full satchel knocks against your hips as you go, and you curse, slowing down just long enough to hitch it more securely onto your shoulder.

He picked today.

Why did he have to pick today?

You were going to be there with him! That was the plan! And instead, you were off having mincemeat pie with your Gran while he was going out to the woods. How could he!

It's unfair. You knew this was coming. It was what he _did_.

But. Someone once told you that you could make a difference. You thought this was the right place. You maybe hoped it was the right place.

You run, and hope you haven't missed your shot.

 

* * *

 

Like you've grown accustomed, you enter the castle through the handmaidens' alcove, a small door off the courtyard that skips a few winding hallways to put you right in the bower. Your pace grinds to a halt as you as you duck in, because the room is fairly packed. By the looks of it, everyone is gathered here, the entire retinue. Some are dressed in their lilac, but plenty of others look like they've been laying about in pajamas.

It's a fitting way to spend the last true day of winter.

Over everyone's heads, you can see the Matron, stately and tall where she stands on the other side of the room. "With that in mind," she's saying, "duties will be light for the next two weeks. If you'd like to celebrate with your families, leave will be very lenient. Those who wish to stay, I implore you to avoid the royal wing entirely. His Divine Majesty will need his rest after this delivery, and we _will_ ," she pauses to meet the eyes of some of the handmaidens, "give it to him."

That is apparently the end of her decree. She bows her head, and turns away, right into a clutch of people eager to get her attention.

You don't intend to hang around today. You mutter your rote apologies as you nudge past the girls, over to your bed in the corner. You picked the corner special, closest to the door, quickest for sneaking in and out. Only a few people so much as glance at you as you hurry along, ducking behind your privacy screen and pulling off your clothes.

The green robe is hanging off the screen, and you drag it off quickly. At first it was a terror to get used to, the way it fit in place on you with all its utility straps and hidden pockets and such. Now, you're dressed in ten seconds flat, tugging the belt into place and hefting your bag back onto your shoulder.

You don't have time to waste, so the matron grabbing your elbow as you go is particularly vexing today.

"Penitent English," she says, face drawn, eyes severe. "You've returned. How fares your grandmother?"

Your grandmother! Your _grandmother!_  You hold your horses with an iron grip, sucking in a breath through your teeth. "She's-- fit as a fiddle, doing fine. Matron, I have to--"

Her grip is unrelenting. Well, you could get out of it, but... that seems severe. She's a kind if strict woman who sort of reminds you _of_  your Gran, if you didn't have all of your Gran's favor that let you get away with such things like announcing to the family you were joining the Prince's retinue.

"Penitent English," she says like your mother always said _Jacob Harley English_ , when you were caught doing something you ought not. You look down at your feet on sheepish instinct. "I have worked in this holy house for longer than you've been alive. I know it's difficult, being this close to him, but we need to let him rest."

You bite your lip, not lifting your eyes from the rug under your feet. The petulant words are hiding just behind your teeth, how the Prince barely rests at all, how leaving him now would be... some flavor of betrayal.

Her hand rubs up and down your arm. "Jake. Spring is coming. The danger has been lifted from us. We would insult him not to take this time for prayer and celebration."

"Right," you say quietly, voice thick. Slowly, you drop your bag onto the chest at the foot of your bed. "'Course."

She leaves you, immediately whisked away by another part of the retinue. Around you, some of the handmaidens are sitting in clusters, heads on each other's shoulders, sniffling into their sleeves or holding hands with their heads bowed.

If anything slows you, it's the sight of your compatriots all so affected by the turn of the seasons. It's hard to shake something that Skaia is _built upon_. Even if no one in this room lived to see it, there were so many long winters. People who froze in the streets, who went hungry, who went mad just from not seeing the damned sun for months on end.

Trials that haven't blighted Skaia in so long, but were as a part of the kingdom as the guildhouses and the high walls.

You sink down beside your bag, taking a moment to catch your breath.

Ninety seconds pass, before you decide that's quite enough of that. Snatching up your bag, you slip out of the bower before anyone notices you.

Again. This is why you took the corner bed, thank you very much.

 

* * *

 

The circuitous path up the stairs to the Prince's tower is one you've walked times innumerable by now. The steep walkway that's a little treacherous with a skirt skimming your heels. But that's what the little belt straps are for, and you bundle up before heading up.

As usual, the tower is the warmest place in the castle, as if proximity to the Prince was warmth itself. By the time you finish ascending the stairs, there is one bead of sweat running down your temple. You resettle your bag on your shoulder, and stop to listen behind you, just in case the matron followed or sent someone to retrieve you.

But it's quiet. Even today, it's the sort of cold quiet that only winter brings. You suppose that even with the season breaking, some things need time to pass, like snow melting off a rooftop.

Down the bend of the hallway, you find the royal chambers. And one guard standing directly in front of the doors.

For the past few months, you've gotten through that door with nothing more than a smile and a nod. Now, the guard stands in full armor, the grill of their helm flipped down over their face. You're not even sure which guard it is this time.

Your hasty steps falter, and you approach cautiously.

The guard's helm moves as their head turns to focus on you.

"Excuse me," you say, hoping it'll be that simple.

They shake their head. "Not today. Not for the next few days, actually. You're new to the retinue, so maybe you don't know. But the Prince needs to recover."

"Oh, I know. The Matron explained all that," you say breezily. Patting your bag, you go on, "I've got a king's ransom worth of healing in this bag. I just want to see to him, help him along." You review your word choice and wince. "Erm, so to speak. I've got a lot, is the point."

All of the armor clinks against itself as the guard shifts their weight from one foot to the next. "That isn't how... No handmaidens in or out. _No one_ in or out until the Prince emerges."

No one in or out while the Prince recovers.

The Matron made to send everyone away for over a week.

You've always been a sort of docile boy, ever since you were young. Some things ground your pepper, but it was easy just to roll with the punches and let things go, until they finally went your way.

But for once, a spark of genuine anger catches in your chest like kindling.

You square your shoulders and narrow your eyes at the guard. "You must be mistaken. Look at me, do you seem like your average handmaiden?" You step back, sweeping an arm across your lush green robes, the fine tailoring and subtle ornate filigree and stitching. "The Prince himself elevated me to his right hand, and you would cleave me from his wrist?"

 _Cleave_ lands like a strike on the guard, and even through the narrow shadow of their helm, you can see them avert their eyes. "These things are tradition. It's nothing personal."

"It's nothing personal _to you_ ," you shoot back. "Who did His Majesty call for a fortnight ago? Who has tended to him personally for half this blasted winter?" You jab a finger into the side of your satchel. "I am _here because_  he informed me he would take his leave to the woods today and asked me to gather supplies for his recovery, and now you-- what are you _doing?_ "

It's another hit, as swift and careful as though by the Prince's own hand. You're not familiar with a rapier, but you know your way around a bow, and some principles are universal, you think.

The guard mutters something under their breath, and stomps to the side, looking back down the hallway. "This feels like blasphemy."

You nearly snap something really mean at them, stuck in the charade you've made. Something like _bring it up with the priesthood_ , but you're not willing to risk the open path. " _Thank_ you," you say, aggrieved but privately relieved as you slip by and through the door.

You shut the door behind you, and breathe, your heart racing.

That. Was a _very_ good fib. You'd have to retell it to your Gran next you see her. Bluffing a castle guard, one of the Prince's own! Blimey, the things you could do when you put your mind to it!

But, you always knew that. Or, not always. Since you were sixteen, certainly.

 

Ten years ago, like every confused teenager in the kingdom of Skaia, you had your birthday, and a letter arrived at your door. Lavender paper with midnight black ink listing a time. Your appointment with the High Seer.

As a student of the Alchemy House, you rarely ventured to the other guildhouses, except to courier things around, trades and payments and fulfilled orders.

On your birthday, though, your mother dressed you finely, and sent you on your own to the House of Divination.

You'd had far better birthday gifts, to be honest. Everything in the Seer's guild felt weird after growing up in the solid, grounded work of your own field. Amorphous, like breathing in smoke.

And then there was all the actual smoke. THe High Seer liked her incense, that was for sure.

Sitting at her table, you tucked your hands between your knees and watching anxiously as her painted eyes trailed over your face. Or maybe your aura. Magic like this was beyond your comprehension and you liked it that way, thanks much.

After what seemed like an hour under the Seer's cat eyes, she... smiled. Instinctively you smiled back; things tended to go better when you did. Mum always said you had the most handsome smile in Skaia.

Her nails tapped against the smooth surface of her crystal ball. "Jake English. Within your heart lies a single golden arrow. Someday, you will have the chance to cut a rope."

Your smile wilted. No one shared their prophecies, ever. So you didn't know what to expect. Before you could stop your runaway mouth, you asked, "An arrow? Not a knife? 'Cause I think a knife's better for rope-cutting."

To your relief, the Seer continued to smile. "No, no. Not a knife. A knife is something held. The sharp blade is the thing. What you have is an arrow, but that's not the point. An arrow is aimed by your hand, and loosened by your hand." One nail dragged along the shell of her luminous sphere. "You will be very good with your hands."

"I... don't have a bow," you said quietly. "Should I go buy one?"

The Seer grinned, showing you a flash of her teeth. "It's a metaphorical arrow. Or, I should say a metaphysical one. That said, you should definitely buy a bow. It'll help you grow closer to your grandmother, and you'll both enjoy that."

You thanked her sincerely, because at least _that_ part made sense, and spent your birthday allowance on a shortbow from the market on your way home.

 

These days, you're older, and know a little more about wily futureseers. Your hands are clenched, more out of tension than anything, but they don't feel empty. They haven't felt empty in a long time, and in your idly moments, your fingers have curled around some vague feeling of weight.

You hope so, anyway. You hope with every shred of your being that it's _something_ , and you haven't just played yourself the fool.

Because if you did, you're not the only one being taken in, you think, and that... would break your heart.

Gathering yourself, you take in the state of Dirk's chambers. To your dull surprise, it looks much like the day before when you bid him goodnight. The fire is crackling away, flooding the room with fortunate heat, and the curtains are still drawn, like Dirk always prefers in the mornings and evenings.

Everything looks undisturbed in here.

So, you push off the door and walk towards the bedroom. Your lips part as you think to call out to him, to warn him you're here.

You can't. Instead, you take a deep breath and walk through the half-open door to his bedroom.

Here, the room is dim, the sun out of position and not fully casting light through the curtains. You linger in the doorway until your eyes adjust. You've been here before, the times when you helped him to bed when he was particularly tired. Or, just when you wanted to.

Slipping past the door, you can see the bed. It's an oversizedfour poster that Dirk couldn't fill if he starfished out with all his long, gangly limbs. Today, the sheer canopy is pulled partially closed. But you can see the shape on the bed, curled on his side, away from you.

You circle around, and take hold of the gauzy shroud, pulling it aside.

On the bed, the Prince lays on his side. His head rests on the pillow at a strange angle. His breathing is slow and steady, lips parted. His eyes are closed, and one hand lays on the bed.

His other.

His other hand is laid across his neck, holding a cloth in place. The cloth is... stained. Some of it clings to his fingertips, the edge of his palm. The same color clings to the corners of his mouth, dark against his pale skin. And _pale_ , in a sense that goes beyond complexion and into something unwell.

You jerk your eyes away.

On his bedside table, you see stacks of fresh bandages and small towels. They surround an enchanted basin of faintly steaming water. There's one towel, white cloth stained pink, hanging off the edge of the basin. Water slowly drips from the towel onto the floor.

You grab it, wringing out the water back into the basin, and tossing the ruined towel into the corner.

Turning back, your eyes resettle on Dirk just in time to watch his own open slowly.

One hand on the endtable, you lower yourself to your knees at his bedside. His soft tangerine eyes track you so slowly, blinking twice before finding your eyes again.

His fingers, lax against the bed, twitch and curl.

Swallowing, you reach out and thread yours through his, leaning in. "Oh, Dirk," you whisper, a shake humming in your bones, desperate to come loose and take you apart. "Dirk, what is... Are you..." You stop yourself, shutting your eyes and taking a deep gulp of air before opening them again. "I'm here. Dearheart, I'm here."

Dirk shakes his head. His mouth moves; you can't hear anything. Given the state of him, you think speaking might... be too much right now. But you've watched his lips form the shape of your name so many times now, you recognize it immediately, and smile.

One hand clasped in yours, you look to his other. That cloth against his neck doesn't look good. Which means.

You already know what it means, and reach for it.

To your surprise, Dirk manages to move quickly if not swiftly, his hand knocking against yours before closing around your wrist. The grip is weak as a newborn kitten, but you don't resist it.

His lips move again, and it's harder to tell what he's saying. You move closer, squinting against the dim light.

 _Shouldn't be here,_ he says, silent.

"Don't be stupid," you blurt out before you can stop yourself, face hot.

He blinks once, long and slow, and you get the feeling this is a lot for him right now. _Told them. No retinue._

"Oh. Well." You look down at your entwined fingers, brushing your thumb against him. "To their credit, they _did_  tell me that. But I sort of..." You pluck at the front of your robe and clear your throat against the lump that's lodged there. "It doesn't matter. You-- You need help. Let me help." You forgo the cloth to lay your hand against his cheek. It's cool under your hand in a way you don't like. "I want to help you."

It's all you've ever wanted to do. You remember watching the Prince's display at the exhibition, the first time you'd ever seen the savior of Skaia in person. All his beautiful movement and parries and strikes, all of it was nothing compared to that glimpse of him shaking out the wrist of his sword hand afterward.

You saw it, and felt like a bowstring was strung through your spine, pulled taut and plucked like a mandolin. _Here,_ this was where you were meant to be.

Dirk's watching you, but his eyes keep losing focus. Even half-crazed from lack of sleep, he didn't look like this, shallow as a puddle under a hot sun. Every time his eyes lid, you bend to press your lips to his fingers, shushing him softly. Each blink is a little longer, until his eyes are just shut.

You wait only a moment longer before taking both his wrists, pressing them to the bed, and reaching for the cloth again.

It's not even a proper bandage. It doesn't wrap around his neck at all, and as you lean over him, you can see the matching stains on the pillow under him. It's a grim harbinger, but you can't afford to hesitate now, and gently lift the cloth from his neck.

To your credit, you don't recoil, or gasp, or retch.

There is no collar around his neck, and the... the wound is fresh enough to still slowly bleed. It's hard to look directly at; you close your eyes, gathering yourself, then make yourself look. Assess.

Alright. That's. Not good.

You lose your grip for one fucking second, and a choked sob makes it out of your mouth.

Dirk's eyes open, wide.

"Sorry, sorry, it's okay," you say, voice cracking. "I..." You wipe your eyes. "I'm fine, I got this."

Dirk's eyebrows lift slightly, a portrait of soft pity. Which doesn't help at all. You huff out a laugh. "Don't you dare. Don't. You-- You go right back to sleep, Your Majesty, and let me do, alright?"

You have to get at your bag. You are the grandson of the head of the alchemy guild, you _know_ what to do. There are things to be used. Methods only you and a handful of others know.

You get to your feet and sit on the edge of the bed. When Dirk starts to turn, onto his back, you stop him. "No moving. I'll do the moving, you lie still."

Under the sleep remedies and oddities, you keep a few things for essentially emergencies. One is bottle cut from pure crystal, asymmetric and heavy and held shut with a tight wire and cork. You set it on the table, then dip a towel in the basin and begin cleaning Dirk up the best you can.

Some ingredients are so potent, it'd be a crime to do anything but use them in their basic state. Dilution is unacceptable, and the component is reserved for only the most dire of circumstances.

The rain is one of them.

It's a misleading name. Rain is common as housecats in Skaia, given the right seasons. But: the first rain of the year that happens to fall on a clear night during a full moon is something rather more significant.

Your grandma taught you how to collect it. Fresh bottles only, not glass but purified crystal. No funnels to coax it into the bottle either. You were twenty-two, standing out in the middle of the night, that chilly nebulous place between winter and spring, holding two bottles skyward and waiting for them to fill.

It wasn't rainwater, it was _the rain_. About the most cleansing, rejuvenating thing in the entire House stores.

You take a roll of bandages from the table and spread them out over your lap before uncorking the bottle. As careful as you can, you dampen the cloth, spending half the bottle in one shot.

Turning on the bed, you see Dirk watching you, brows tucked together. You reach out, smooth the crease in his forehead out, shushing him quietly.

"Alright," you say quietly. "Can you sit up for just a moment?"

It requires letting him hold onto you with both hands, but he manages. You make the quickest work of it as you possibly can, wrapping the angry gash around his neck until it's covered in layers of rain-imbued bandage, tying it off neatly at the the end. It takes only a moment or two, and still Dirk's chest starts to heave just from being upright that long.

Wrapping your arms around him, you lower him back down, cradling his head in one hand. His head rests on the pillow, and his eyes shut again.

There are other things to do. You have palo santo rods in your bag, you want to light them for a while. You need to mix up some compontents, make a pain relief salve. And those tinctures for sleep, you think Dirk will need them now. You can't imagine sleeping through this without them.

But for a moment, you sit beside his curled body, and run your fingers through his sweat-damp, mussed hair. As you do, it draws a tension out of Dirk like siphoned poison, and his breaths deepen; you can hear the rough, coarse sound of every exhale.

Oh. He can't speak. You lay your hand against the curve of his head, fighting against the hysterical tremor that rattles against your bones. It's not weariness. He's... healing. He can't speak. Because.

You can't think about that.

So instead, you think about the matron's words, and the guard that stood in your path. How things are done here. Traditions.

Two weeks.

_Two weeks._

You're angry. You are suddenly so angry, you can barely comprehend it. It's a white hot fury catching light in you. Because you are here and you are going to help him. You are going to expend every resource and use every trick in the cookbook grimoire of alchemy, you are going to take care of this man.

It is sinking in like a stiletto, the realization that no one else is coming to assist. There are enough bandages and towels laid out, and when you look around you see platters of dried fruits and jugs of fresh water, and you know in your heart that Dirk has always done this alone.

There are hot tears on your cheeks. It seems impossible that no one would come. Skaia worships Dirk, sings his praises, the man who stands against the darkness, the undying Prince, the death of all winters, they bring him gifts and cheer for him, and yet while he's so weak he can't lift his head because he just fucking severed it for the good of the land, _no one is here._

But you are. And some things start to make sense. The number of times you've fought with Dirk's wariness, his incessant bloody questions about what you want, the way he just would not _believe you_ , when all you wanted was to say what you meant and have him accept it and trust you.

You rub your face with a towel, and blow your nose.

Dirk puts his hand on your leg, frowning again.

Deep breath.

Okay.

"Stop that," you tell him, trying to smooth out the drawn lines of his face again. "Or your face will stick."

He mouths something. Your vision's too blurry to make it out, but you can guess. You take off your glasses and clean them briskly before putting them back.

"Right. Two weeks, thereabouts? You want two whole weeks to be a lazy sack of bones and stay abed all day?" You sniffle loudly. Cripes, you're a bit of a mess. "Well, I'm here now, Your Majesty, and with me here, we're going to do it in half the time, understood?"

Dirk looks up at you like you're something awe inspiring. Or like a fever dream. You like it. Not the vague pained set to his features, but the way he looks at you like you're the most remarkable thing he's ever seen.

Softly, and maybe a little painfully, he smiles.

The kingdom of Skaia isn't worth the fire it'd take to burn it down, but you'll sort that out later. For now, you pull yourself up onto the bed, draping as much of your robes over him as you can, and settle in beside the Prince.


	10. honey

You wake up and you're in pain.

It's not terribly shocking. If you focus through the radiant, throbbing agony, you remember bits and pieces. You went to the horror for the yearly sacrifice, and as ever dragged your body back through the hidden ways to be locked up in your room. Spring would come. You might miss the first break of frost, given how long your recovery tends to take.

Hunger is slow to lift its head and bring attention to itself; there is so much going on in your body, the realization you need food takes time to permeate. There'll be food around somewhere; when you leave for the woods, others come in to leave you supplies. You just need to go find it.

First, eyes. You open them. Actually focusing takes time. It's much easier to lay still and wallow in how much your neck hurts. Which it does. A lot.

You drag your gaze wearily around, taking in your surroundings. The usual things are around. Basin of water, bandages, clean robes, towels.

On your bedside table, there is a mug filled with rocks, a piece of some sort of light wood standing in it. The tip is smouldering very faintly, and smoke rising. You inhale carefully, wary of your brutalized neck. It smells... clean. Not even like smoke, but a scent that is similar to how freshwater looks.

Gingerly, you push yourself up on your arm, gasping from the effort, your free hand on your jaw to hold your head steady. Even the slightest pull against your neck quintuples your pain level.

The food must have been left in the sitting room. You try not to be annoyed by this, but even the act of walking a short distance is going to take all your energy.

With that in mind, you gather a throw from the bed around your shoulders. This way, at least, you can just nap in the armchair before returning to your bed.

Getting to the sitting room takes a few moments as you lean on each piece of furniture you can reach, steps cautious and carefully measured as you take each one. You _have_  done this before and run out of energy halfway. Stones floors are cold, but bracing.

Once you've made it to your usual armchair, you lean heavily against the winged back of it, gathering yourself again. Once your breathing steadies, you look around.

There are no food trays.

You frown, confused. This would be a first. The methods surrounding this sequester haven't changed in a long, long time, and you... don't know what this means. It's hard to even think straight through the pain and looming exhaustion.

The door opens, and you are saved from having to solve this problem when a much bigger one walks in. Jake, pushing his hood back off his head, holding a very full satchel. He takes two steps into your chambers, and freezes, eyes popping wide, face stilling in something near fear.

"What," he says soft and shocked, "are you _doing_ , why are you out of--" His voice is pitching louder with every word, and he fairly storms over to your side, his hands closing around your arm and elbow in a secure, firm grip. "I told you to sit put, that I'd be back." He looks up into your face, eyebrows drawn together, eyes flicking over your features.

"Dirk," he says, calmer. "Do you remember last we spoke?"

Do you? You look away from the inexorable distraction of his face to look at his grip on you, his dark hands pressing firm against your skin. You remember... the horrors. And being half-carried to your rooms. And...

Jake. Like a fever dream. You remember the balm of seeing his face. But beyond that?

You shake your head.

"Well, alright," he says, voice brisk. "That's fine. You just gave me a scare. It's not exactly a cold hard shock. You've been in and out of it for a while." He nudges you. "Sit down."

He urges you down onto the chaise lounge, somehow appearing a pillow from somewhere to help you put your neck in the least-awful position. There is space for him to sit, and he takes it without hesitation, taking your blanket and tucking it around you. Winter is going to lose its bite soon, but it's not something that happens overnight. The chill in the air is still pronounced.

"I'll rekindle the fire in a tic," Jake murmurs, setting his hefty satchel down and opening it to paw through it. "First, bandages. Let's put a fresh one on you, since you insist on making a mess of them."

His tone is so warm and friendly, it's strange. As if this were any other day with him loitering around your chambers, not the aftermath of your sacrifice. You swallow, and wince at the pain that lances through you. Jake's eyes are sharp on you, watching. "No, don't try to speak yet."

No kidding. You... usually don't _have_  any company to tempt you, so you're not perfectly sure how long that part of the healing takes. But not yet, certainly.

Instead, Jake pulls out a roll of soft gauze, a strange misshaped bottle, and a small pair of scissors with comfortable-looking carved wooden grips.

Belatedly, like a bell echoing back through a canyon, you put all this together and put your hand over his, stilling him.

Jake looks up at you, and his expression softens. "Dirk," he whispers. "I've seen it already. I've changed the dressing enough times now. It's alright."

Still, you can't move, a fearful tension arresting your movement. It's Jake who pushes you away, back against the chaise with your hands held in your lap. He makes a point to hold you still for a moment before nodding and taking up his scissors.

There are few things as uncomfortable as having a soiled bandage taken from you. It's not a clean process; the wound around your neck is still at a... gooey stage, blood and other unpleasant fluids soaking into the bandage. Jake is desperately careful as he takes it off you, but you can't keep from gasping and clutching his knee against the agony it causes. Over the sound of your heart pounding in your ears, he talks to you soothingly. It helps. The words have no meaning, but you love his voice and cling to it like driftwood after a shipwreck.

The air stings. You shut your eyes tightly.

"One sec, one sec, I've got you." He leaves your side, presumably to burn the old dressing before he resettles in against you. "We're almost done."

The new bandage he lays around your neck is faintly damp with some liquid that... you have no idea what it is, but it feels so cool and refreshing, as if it were numbing the open wound. You're still in pain, can't imagine that's going to change anytime soon, but you're able to open your eyes and see through the haze.

You frown at the little bottle Jake corks.

"Rainwater. Probably one of the most powerful healing agents we've got." He smiles at you, and wipes some trailing unpleasantness away from where it trickles down your neck. Then, he grabs another bottle from his pack, and rinses something over his hands, dabbing the excess liquid around your bandage. "It's why I left you. Do you remember? I ran out, and the Alchemy House will not courier it since it's so valuable. Had to go myself."

You don't remember it. The idea of something so precious being spent on you is about as painful as the decapitation. You press your lips together.

"Stop that," he tells you curtly. "We don't bloody well _use it_. It just sits on the shelf since it's such a particular bit of magic."

You watch him as he tugs and moves your blanket, dragging it up around your shoulders and pulling it, tucking it until you're warm and comfortable on the lounge. Catching his eye, you mouth, _Thank you._

You're not expecting him to lean in and brush his lips against yours. "You're welcome. Now, explain to me why you decided to have a wander and stretch your legs. Because I've half a mind to tie a lead to you, lash it to the bed."

Uh. That's sure something nobody's ever said to you. Licking your lips, you mouth again: _Looking for food. They usually leave some for me._

A fucking stormcloud darkens Jake's expression. You only catch a glimpse before he looks conspicuously away from you, biting his lip. "Hm. Yeah. Dried fruits and jerky. Good for lasting a week or two, I'm sure." You can only see part of his face, but his lips are curling in a way that has nothing to do with his smile. "Bet it goes down a treat with your throat a ravanged mess, right?"

It's a good thing you can't speak, because you have no idea what to say to that.

He glanced back at you, and sighs, all of the anger leaving him in a rush. "I sent it away. When you want something to eat, I'll call for it. How about some _fresh_ fruit? Something soft, easier to swallow?"

That... sounds better. You nod.

"And I have some healing tincture for you to take, to help patch you up on the inside. It's a fun diversion to have you all quiet and hanging on my every word, Your Majesty, but a fellow will come to miss your dulcet tones."

That's is... very nice to hear. Jake stares at you as you absorb it, and say nothing in return. You can't, and for some reason, Jake's smile widens. "I mean it," he tells you, softer. "In the short term, having you unable to stir up a fuss over nothing is pretty good. But we'll get you healed up, I promise."

He leaves you, then, to build up the fire and to lean out of the room to speak to someone outside. Food, you assume.

Nothing about this is familiar. The end of winter and start of spring has been a stable routine for a very long time. It was the time when you were locked away to recover from the ordeal, and you didn't emerge until you were presentable again.

Laying against the chaise, you watch Jake bustle around you. His voice is steady and bright as a new coin. He sits beside you as you eat vivid orange melon balls and a creamy soup of parships, ramps, and mushrooms. It's all blended together and easy to eat, especially with Jake's thigh pressed against yours.

Your throat tightens in a way that has nothing to do with physical pain, and your hands shake as you hand the bowls back to Jake.

If he notices, he says nothing, merciful and kind. Instead, he gives you a spoonful of something awful that stings going down, then a spoonful of honey. "For the taste. I know the tincture's terrible."

After, you're left empty handed, watching him whisk everything away. He fetches the mug with the smoking wood from your bedroom, setting it on the tea table. "Palo santo," he murmurs, as if that's supposed to mean something to you.

Then, a hush falls. You know by now that Jake is in turns a chatterer and reserved. Often, when he runs out of steam, he'll busy himself in some project or make you a pot of tea, or something. When his mouth stops working, his hands start. You adore it more than you'd ever admit.

"You look tired," Jake tells you quietly, cupping your face and dragging his thumb over your brow.

You nod.

"Do you want to go back to bed?" he asks.

That's the logical conclusion, but the idea of getting up when you're so comfortable and full and close to the fire. You nod again, and shift to move.

"You don't _have_  to, Dirk," Jake tells you, putting his hands on your shoulders. He leans down, his forehead brushes yours. "Would you like to stay here instead?"

Yes. You keep your eyes averted. Jake straightens and clucks his tongue. His hands slip from you as he walks away. While you brace yourself to stand, he comes back, holding another blanket and two more pillows.

You stare up at him. Warm as a summer sun, and just as welcome in winter. You have no idea what you did to earn his attention, outside apparently some fancy swordwork at an exhibition.

You're grateful.

Jake urges you to lay down, and you put up little complaint as he arranges you the way he pleases. And the way he pleases has you laying against him, your head on his chest. It's a good angle, only the slightest ache from your injury. And besides, he sinks back to lay down, and you sink down with him, your arm around his waist.

You never imagined it could be like this. The thought makes your breath hitch, and you turn your face a little more against him.

As you settle in, Jake arranges blankets and _you_ , until everything is perfect.

Immediately, you shut your eyes, and feel yourself come untethered from the aches and pains in your body, instead in a much more forgiving place.

Jake's fingers drag against your scalp, through your hair. You shut your eyes, and trust Jake enough to let go and slip peacefully into sleep.


	11. time

It's a very lucky thing that the furniture in the royal quarters is so comfortable. The chaise becomes your favored place to grab your forty winks every night. In truth, it's almost better than your bunk in the bower. The cushions are generous, and the fire is so close by, you are toasty as a marshmallow, even nudging some of your blankets off as you sleep.

You are also nearby if anything happens during the night. Which, given the nature of the Prince's injury, it sometimes does.

Tonight, you're woken by the sound of a sharp, hacking cough. Without hesitation, your feet hit the floor, and you abandon the warm comfort of your improvised bed to hustle your way into the bedroom. The floor stings your feet, hurrying you along to the relative safety of the thick rugs in Dirk's room.

He's awake in the worst way, rolled onto his side with one hand reached out, gripping the edge of the bedside table as his throat flays around a sustained, awful cough. You wince just to hear it; he's on the mend, astoundingly so given the state you found him in just a week and change ago. Pouring every ounce of pharmalchemic tricks you have into him has done wonders.

But this keeps happening. You presume there is... scarring in his throat, agitating him and putting him in this state.

You have methods of dealing with it, but for now, you climb up to sit beside him, cupping his head to help him hold it up and rubbing his back soothingly. "Easy, lovely, easy."

Under your hand, you can feel the way Dirk drags in a breath to speak, only to lose it, coughing again. He taps at his neck, shaking his head.

Sitting there, you murmur a lot of useless, soothing words until his latest fit passes, finally giving way into careful, shallow breaths that hopefully won't set him off again.

As soon as he calms, you leave to go fetch the usual.

There's nothing magical about the jam you scoop out of a jar and into a mug of hot water. It's just honey, lemon, and ginger, sweet and viscous. Less alchemy, more old wives' remedy that your grandmother taught you long ago.

You use hot water from the fireplace for the soother, then add enough cool water from the carafe so Dirk can actually drink it, before bringing the heavy ceramic mug to his bedside.

He's laid up in bed again, eyes shut, his breathing abortive and careful. When you sit by him, he frowns. "Sorry," he whispers in a voice like a wheel locked in loose gravel. "Didn't mean t'wake you."

"I don't mind at all. Here, drink."

His head is slow to turn towards you. In truth, you're glad he's turning it at all. The wound round his neck is knitting and healing faster than you would've expected, but still not quickly enough. Any time he uses his neck, you watch for any sign of pain.

Tonight, it seems all the pain is internal. He's blurry and slow to focus on the mug, but takes it from you with both hands.

You catch the half-second in which his eyes drag over you before he looks sheepishly away. It's all fair enough; you don't sleep with a shirt on, and Dirk is absolutely awful at not staring.

You smile to yourself as you watch him sip the soother, the air smelling sharply of ginger and lemon. "I always liked this recipe," you tell him quietly. "Gran used to make it in batches, and I'd find the stewing jars and stick my finger in them for a taste. She eventually taught me how to make them myself. Probably so I'd stop stealing from hers."

Dirk smiles at you between drinks, but wisely says nothing. After telling him off ten dozen times, your decree to take it easy has finally started to sink in, it seems. The late hour probably helps. You rub your hand up and down his leg as he imbibes.

He sets the mug aside and takes deep breath, sighing it out hard. The cough doesn't return and the relief on his weary face is clear. "It's good. Always got the impression that medicine was obligated to taste terrible."

"No, we just do that to punish you for being sick," you jibe, enjoying the huff of laughter out of him. His eyes are flicking up to you, nervy as a cat in a thunderstorm, eyes catching on your collarbone, his fingers tightening in his quilt. It makes something inside you ache a little, seeing how careful this man is, that even looking is something so bold to him.

It's like tending to some wilting flower, coaxing it back to health with patience, fresh water, and encouragement.

You have never been accused of having an abundance of patience.

Leaning in, you ask, "May I?" and watch Dirk's breath quicken. There's confusion on his face, but also trust, as he nods once. Closing the distance between, you kiss him. First testing, firm but chaste, listening to the soft sleepily surprised hum he lets out. Then, parting his lips, you delve deeper, brushing his teeth, pushing against his tongue to chase the warm syrup taste. His hum breaks into a moan, and feel his hands grip your biceps, moving and drowsily exploring.

Kissing the honey-ginger from his mouth is a treat, but the slow way he warms to touching you is even more so. You drag it out, bracing an arm against the headboard to push for more. His tentative fingers against your stomach, heel of his hand against your navel.

Ice broken like a hammer tossed on a frozen lake, you finally lean back, gratified at how his fingers tense against your sides, reddened lips following you.

He still winces a little as his neck stretches. You put a hand on his shoulder, press him back.

Your plan was to have something smooth to say here, maybe thanking him for the taste or something. But he's touching you so carefully, eyes heavy with sleep and kiss-drunk. You lean in to kiss him again, quick. "Sleep, Dirk. You still need rest."

He shuts his eyes, nods.

It takes a lot of willpower to coax him under the covers, hand supporting his neck, laying him down; it takes even more to leave him like that, just a nudge of your mouth against his temple before you pick up the empty mug and leave him to sleep.

Your own bed is still nice, but not nearly so warm.

 

* * *

 

Being a part of the retinue means on some level you have always been obligated to be at the Prince's beck and call. That's always been a wily notion to nail down, given Dirk's intense allergy to making use of the benefits of his station. In truth, you've always... pushed a little. Sometimes more than a little.

It's a necessary function of your station, really. Even more so now with... what he's been through. Everyone else spinelessly turning away from him makes your hackles rise something awful, even if you _know_  many of the handmaidens, and _know_  they just... have no idea, no comprehension of this.

Still, what catches you off guard about it all is the more time you spent with the Prince, the less he actually needs you. There are few direct tasks you need to take care of, outside changing his dressings and sometimes helping him into the living room. He sleeps often, and for long stretches, you are left to your own devices in his chambers. When this first began, you were unsure how he'd weathered this alone in the past. Now, you see the amount of downtime there is to his recovery.

Healing from a fatal wound really takes the wind right out of you, it seems. You even have time to draw yourself a hot bath in the royal washroom and return before he even rouses from a nap.

You don't need to be here for every moment of his recovery, and make the time to visit your Gran and to just... stretch your legs. But every moment you're away, you worry, and so keep your wandering to a minimum.

The point being, eventually, you run out of things to do, and start into the sort of chores that you wouldn't be caught dead doing in other circs. Like cleaning up the place. After all, it's the right season for it, to your reckoning. Spring cleaning was a time-honored tradition.

You burn all the old healing accouterments on the fire. Make up your little chaise bed best you can. Gather up the used dishes and cutlery on a cart to leave outside.

(Even as you make yourself at home with Dirk, no one else dares to enter the rooms but to pick up and drop off whatever you ask for. You can tell you're going to have to pay the piper eventually. You should probably be more concerned about that.)

The laundry probably needs doing. You start to toss things from the floor into a wicker basket, easy to hand off to someone else. There's no guilt to pawning off the task to someone else. Really, given the amount of bloodstain and healing poultice you've handled in the past week, someone else can take care of the damn laundering.

You grumble all this to yourself as you toss slightly bloodstained pajamas into the basket. Probably should burn those too, but... there is something that feels right about leaving it to the people outside these rooms to handle.

Underneath the clothes, you find something odd. It's sitting on the floor, and for a moment you freeze in place, the first casual glance only giving you the sense of _huge wings_. Your heart is startled into beating a little bit faster as you reach down and pick up whatever-it-is from where it's fallen half-under the bed.

Across your arms, you spread out an ornate cloak. The material is so fine, you... don't actually know what it is, soft and light but spiling like tangible heat over your forearms. It's black like a pot of squid ink, flecked with gold in the shape of long, layered feathers. As you move it, it even bends in rows, each feather discrete on its own.

Dirk's resting again, the usual nap after breakfast. You gingerly sit on the corner of his bed, spreading out the cloak across your lap.

As your fingers trace the shape of one feather, you see the way its delicate vane moves with you, showing off the intermittent breaks. It reacts under your touch, the narrow individual barbs swelling with a color like molten gold. As you whip your hand back, it fades back to demure black.

"What in the name of all merry hell is this," you say incredulously.

The bed shifts, and Dirk mumbles something as he stirs. Quickly, you reach out, putting a hand on his lower leg and petting, hoping to coax him back to sleep.

Dirk's leg pulls up and away as he pushes himself up in bed, one arm shoving his pillows together against the headboard until he can recline. "What's what?"

"You're not supposed to be talking," you scold him, starting to fold up the cloak.

"I'm fine," he replies, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his hand. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing is _wrong_ , I was just cleaning up, lest you get out of bed sometime and trip over something and bang your head on something."

"Walk in the park," Dirk tells you glibly. He looks down at the cloak in your lap. "Oh. That?"

You cannot keep from staring down at it. "Yes, this. Where did you get it? It's... I'm afraid it might actually be made of..."

"Bird feathers," Dirk says.

" _Phoenix pinion, you absolute horse's ass,_ do you know what... Who made this? Where did it come from?" Your voice is pitching too high, but you can't help it. This cloak has... a lot of feathers. You begin testing them, seeing if every single one shimmers when touched. As you do, the gravity of what you have found just sitting on the floor is starting to sink in. The persistent alchemist voice in your head starts gibbering madly. You could buy the entire stock of the Alchemy House with this. Then probably every sword in the Forge. And clean out the street vendors for an encore.

Dirk, however, is quiet. His face has turned from you; with the sun finally showing itself through the clouds, you've opened the curtains, and he is fairly glaring out at the world. His eyebrows are drawn narrowly together, face a tense picture of... annoyance?

"I don't remember," he admits in a near-whisper. He rubs his face again with both hands, thumbs pressing against his eyes as he grimaces. "Dammit, I don't remember. It was a... a gift from one of the guilds, I think." Shaking his head, he sighs, looking out the window again rather than at you. "I don't know. It was many winters ago. Like, more than forty? Sorry."

Oh. You look away from his obvious distress. It's prying, you think guiltily. "That's fine. It's just... very magically expensive. I was wondering who could afford it. It doesn't matter, I guess."

"Maybe more than fifty," Dirk murmurs absently.

"Hey," you say, standing. There is a stone bust across the room, holding the Winter Crown. You walk over and drape the cloak over it. Once it's settled, you turn back to him. "You're awake now, sunshine. Let's do something. How about cards? I spent enough rebellious days loitering around with some of the courtesans, I picked up a few good rulesets."

"You're going to make me get up," Dirk says with a sulk, but soon pushes the covers off himself, lest you take him seriously. "I have a very good face for card games."

"Not nearly as good as you think, lovely though it is," you tell him earnestly, cheered at how he blushes. Meeting him, you take his arm. "Come on. I'm eager to see which of us winds up paying a forfeit before the night's over."

"Fighting words," Dirk says softly, but he's hiding his smile, and that's enough for you.


	12. adonis

Settling into the royal chambers is certainly an easier time than trying to grab a free space around the castle to do your work and a fair sight better than trying to do _anything_  in the bower. There is an unprecedented level of privacy in Dirk's tower that you can just wallow in. Even back home in your House, you have communal spaces for work, but... it's a bustling guild, filled with apprentices and visiting merchants and mercenary alchemists making huge batches of their chosen potion or cataplasm.

One day, you'll be entitled to the Master Alchemist's quarters, and look forward to just the quiet to work in. But you're hardly eager to see your gran shoved off the mortal coil.

Which makes the Prince's rooms the best option.

It becomes something of an issue early on, when Dirk is back on his feet again at last. There is a tideshift when he finally dresses properly again rather than laying about in his sleepwear. You are less inclined to shadow his steps, ready to catch him if he stumbles.

One day, he wakes late in the morning and ventures out into the sitting room.

You are taken in by the way the brutal wound around his neck is obscured by the careful tight ribbon of his collar, the ornate crown jewelry that shields eyes away from the uncomfortable remnant of the Prince's sacrifice. It stirs something hot and tart in your chest.

He, on the other hand, is taken in by the way you've spread your work out across the entirety of the tea table, as well as unpacked half your satchel across one of the chairs. When you stop gawking at him and follow his gaze, you have the good grace to feel embarrassed, leaping up to gather your things together. "Hang on a tic, I'll clear you a spot," you say quickly.

"This is ridiculous," he says, making your hands stutter with a flash of pure mortification. It's smoothed away when he goes on: "Why don't we have a work table brought in here? You don't have enough space to do anything."

 _We._  You duck your head to hide the sudden sunburst of a grin that takes over your face. "That... would be nice."

Really, there is plenty of room. His furniture is limited, perhaps due to how rarely he has visitors, and outside a very full bookcase and a small desk... the sitting room is distinctly lacking.

You've had ample time to become familiar with his quarters since you so boldly inserted yourself into his life, and what strikes you is how sparse that life is. Everything is very ornate and pretty, and there are a few things you know he feels very strongly for, like the chaise by the window and the enormous bathtub in the washroom.

But beyond that... there is a weird atmosphere that hangs around the tower. Dirk lives here, but there is nothing homey about it. More than anything, it seems less like a home and more a very well-kept cage for a bird. Gifts and care heaped on, but all impersonal and cold.

So dragging as much of your kit out and filling the space with bottles and cannisters and the detritus of work feels... good.

Your work table garners a decent seat, and you elect to steal one of the cushioned benches from the atrium. It's a decent spot to settle in for a few hours. But it truly earns its place in your heart when Dirk sits next to you. His presence is a cautious thing at first, curiosity warring with his sense of propriety. One of them wins out eventually, to your delight. Nothing is as lovely as a long, quiet evening, finishing up with a soluable mixture you've spent the afternoon on. As you start labeling the bottles you've filled, Dirk joins you on the bench and leans against your side.

His head fits nicely on your shoulder, his hair a soft nest against your cheek. That he can even bend his neck like that gives you a wave of pride and relief.

By candlelight, you ink in labels with one hand, tucking your free hand into his hair, stroking idly. He hums softly, vibration against your side.

You think you can grow used to this. And more than so, you want to. The idea of leaving him alone in this deathly still, lonely tower makes you sick. There are curtains in your mind being drawn aside for the first time, and beyond them is not the bright blue sky you always assumed, but stormclouds as far as the eye can see.

 

* * *

 

The sky outside is fading from winter grey to the something less foreboding and cold. You throw some wood on the fire in the morning to get out the chill, but it's not the same oppressive feeling you've been waking up to for months.

Spring is coming.

You know things about the Skaian calendar. You've grown up within the kingdom's high walls, participated in as many holidays as you've skipped.

Somehow, everything is different and new experiencing it from this side.

You're just returning to the royal quarters after a bath when Dirk takes a meeting right outside his doors. You recognize the people around him as the stewards of the castle, the who... frankly seem to actually run the day to day of the kingdom. Masters of coin and grain and stone. And someone in the rich purple of the high priesthood.

You have not worn lilac in _month_ , but still feel the urge to stand up straighter and look presentable in their presence.

The woman in violet robes looks past the Prince at you, eyes narrow. "Speaking of ceremony, Your Majesty."

It'd be very easy to shrink back, duck into the washroom again until they're gone.

But Dirk's hands are folded behind his back, and you are in the unique situation of being able to see the way his fingers are clenched, white knuckled. It draws you in closer, taking your place at his side, one step behind.

Dirk's head turns, and the plain mask of his face fades into a faint smile. "I would prefer not to discuss it," he says to them, eyes still on you. You are desperately aware that you are not in _any_  robes. Your green finery is laying over the chair inside, and you're in a tunic and trousers. In this gathering, you're horribly underdressed.

"The Revered Matron has been asking about him," the priest says.

A moue of frustration flickers over Dirk's face, saved for you.

You think very hard for a moment, knowing you have to say something. It takes a moment to decide what. "It's the mission of the handmaidens to bring ease to the Prince's life in any way they can," you mention, trying to control the shake in your voice. "I haven't broken any oath."

"I want him to stay," Dirk adds, guilelessly selfish and candid.

One answer or the other apparently works, since the priest does not speak again.

As soon as the conversation picks up again, you finally give into your cowardice and duck into the royal quarters, giving Dirk's clenched hands a sympathetic pat as you pass by and slip through the door. A hard breath leaves you as you sink onto one of the chairs, relieved to be away from so many unkind eyes.

It's not really a _surprise_. You know you've... done some things that are deeply frowned upon by the others. You knew there would be disapproval, but assumed you could just sort of get away with it if you kept your head down and applied an ounce of charm. That doesn't seem to be the case: when you've gone out to see your gran and replenish supplies, you have gotten some... looks, from the castle staff and the other handmaidens.

But there's been other _looks_  too. Ones not colored with envy or disgust, but... something even less welcome. Something like reverence. You never imagined you would prefer people to be upset with you, but here you are, being _discussed_  by the high council of Skaia.

You make a pot of tea just to busy your hands, waiting for Dirk to be finished with their whole lot.

How Dirk stands it, has withstood it for years, you have no idea.

It's a relief when he slips inside, shutting the door firmly behind. Less so, when he remains there, head tipped back against the door.

"That good?" you say in the most chipper voice you can manage.

Dirk hums vaguely, eyes shut. "They're going to announce the return of Spring soon."

You could've guessed that if you took the time to think about it. It happens every year; the day of sacrifice, the quiet contemplation that follows as Skaia as a whole watches the season break around them, the recession of shadows. Then, Spring's Eve.

"Is that... a bad thing?" you ask.

"No. Just." He shakes his head. "I'll have to address the kingdom. The usual."

"Oh, right," you say quietly. It's a yearly occurance. The Prince giving a commencement speech to the kingdom. It was the first time most people saw him since Offering Day. You'd gone a few times. Many times, you didn't because... it was such a brief event.

You watch Dirk as he takes his seat, the closest to the fireplace. You keep a throw tossed over the arm, and as usual he folds it over his lap. His chin rests in his hand, eyes on the flames.

Staring at him, you can feel a sour expression start to spread over your face. "When is this? Are you well enough for it?"

"It's not a long address," Dirk says.

"Wow, that's _not_  what I asked," you reply, sharp enough that Dirk flinches a little.

"Tomorrow morning."

A laugh knocks out of your chest like a jostled chair. "What, no! Begging your pardon, but.... no?"

Something about your candor makes Dirk smile wanly, which is normally nice to see. "It's a short speech."

"You're not _well_ , Dirk," you say, all the humor left in your body exsanguinating. "You're a fair sight stronger now than the newborn lamb you were before, but you're still recovering! And it'd be worse if you didn't have me plying you with every trick I know!"

"It won't take long," Dirk says. His voice is soft, not so much insistent as resigned. "I've done it before." You open your mouth to give your opinion on _that_ , and before a single word leaves you mouth, he looks up at you. "And you'll be there this time."

It's as effective as a hex in silencing you, and you glare down at your teacup, unwilling to level it at Dirk himself.

"Fine," you mutter. "But it had better be quick. Then we're putting you right back to bed when you're done."

 

* * *

 

With every passing week since you met the Prince, you fell into new habits. One of them was to start wearing the colors of the holy retinue. Another was to wear a lush green picked out for you alone, preening to yourself at the attention and fetching color. And another was going back to wearing _clothes_.

The lilac and green robes are, like all handmaidens' robes, inlaid with magic to increase to longevity of the fabric. They are resilient to tear and stain, as all uniforms need to be.

But you did tire of wearing it every day when you just stayed indoors taking care of Dirk. And quietly, you enjoyed the way he first stared at you when you wore your own clothes, face flushed and eyes furtive, as if he'd caught you in the nude instead of just out of uniform.

For Spring's Eve, though, Dirk asks if you'd put on the robe, and you understand. Something is happening to your station in this castle. You've been the heir to a guildhouse and a gentleman of the lilac cloth, and the latter was a position you'd created for yourself just by joining the handmaidens. But there is no baseline for whatever you are now.

There has always been the Prince, the royal guard, the high council. There's been the Matron and the retinue, the guildmasters, the Seer. There's been the Winter King and the Horror.

You dress in your green robes, tying the belt neatly, tugging every fold and drape of cloth into place. It's the only line you have in this sea change. A hooded companion following at the Prince's side.

Dirk watches as you fuss over yourself in the mirror. There is a crown on his head and another around his neck, bright amidst his habitually dark clothes. You wonder if he made that decision, to dress in blacks and greys, or if it was just another thing that's been decided around him.

You have similar thoughts all the time now, trying to find signs of Dirk's own influence versus where he's bent and folded to fit into a mould.

"Don't you have any notes to study," you ask as Dirk continues to watch you, as if the way you toy with your hood to make it sit right is somehow interesting. "Or have you memorized your speech already?"

Dirk shrugs one shoulder. "Hardly a speech. I've done it enough times, it's a simple affair. Just some reassurances about the Horror being driven back for another year and that I am well."

You narrow your eyes at him.

He grins. "Watch it," he warns, "Or I'll credit you with my speedy recovery."

"By the stars and pillars, _no,_ " you say with genuine dismay. "The high priests will have me killed. Poison my food, something."

"They won't," Dirk says. "I rarely ask for things. You'll be fine."

Which is reassuring but also enough to make you ache. Nothing feels right or fair about it. You swallow down a mouthful of bitter comments and nod.

From outside the castle, you've seen various ceremonies and events, seen the Prince from afar at disparate distances. All the pomp and circumstance seemed to you a difficult affair. You were part of a guild, you had some understanding of everything entailed in organizing things, even if only secondhand.

On the inside, it's not that things are easy, but there is something so practiced, so rote. The trek through a field made simple by a foot-worn path. Everything is set up and clear, and Dirk is going through familiar motions.

The Spring's Eve address draws you to the grand balcony overlooking the kingdom, situated above the entry gates of the castle. Outside, you can hear a din of noise, a mixture of the crowd outside and the high priest's voice. None of it resolves into words, just a muffled din.

Just beyond the archway, Dirk leans his body against the wall.

There are a few members of the council around, as well as some suited guards. No one is looking at Dirk except you.

You step closer to him, touching his hand with two fingers. "Man alive, the priest can go on, can't she? Why don't you sit until she's done and they're ready for you?"

"No," Dirk whispers back.

"Why the devil not?"

"It'd look bad." He puts a finger to his lips. "I'm waiting for my cue."

He doesn't have to wait long. There is a break in the priest's sermon outside, and a swell of noise from the crowd. Dirk nods once, and moves.

For a second, your hand clutches his out of instinct, out of a strange viper of fear rearing up inside you. You nearly jerk him to a stop; instead, he hesitates, looking down at you with a frown.

Beyond the archway, the priest is bowing her head, waiting for Dirk's appearance.

Dirk's eyes are flicking over your face, brow furrowed. He doesn't move, doesn't pull away from you or shake off your grip.

You suddenly are struck by the distinct sensation of having a bird in your fist. Shaken, you let go, a wave of shame hitting you, taking your hand away so to wrap your arms around yourself in an embrace.

Dirk only hesitates a half-second longer before he turns and walks out, his hand reaching for the carved stone barrier.

You have been to enough of the Spring's Eve addresses. Mostly when you were younger. As you grew older, you mostly stuck to the afterparty, as it were; the merchant's guild often put out a hearty spread to celebrate the return of the Prince and the official start of Spring. It was a minor holiday, but every Skaian looked forward to it. There was something about the gradual cessation of Winter and the calm reassurances from the Prince.

But you've never stood on this side of things before.

This time, you stand in the archway and watch Dirk's hand on the balcony, and measure in your mind the weight he presses against the stone.

 _Horror_  is a word that has strange meaning in Skaia. You learn about _The Horror_  as a child before you learn about the emotion.

This, here, feels like the first brush you've had with the emotion. And you wonder if any living Skaian knows the feeling.

Besides Dirk, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Adonis, right.
> 
> Adonis is a minor god associated with death/rebirth cycles, and especially with the changing of seasons.
> 
> Adonis is a sort of archetypical shorthand for a handsome figure who represents an ideal or calling.
> 
> Adonis is a family of cute flowers that happen to be poisonous, particularly to the heart.


	13. shade

Spring's Eve has always been something of an ordeal since it grew into part of the cycle of your life. You see it for the necessity it is; even when winter officially ends on the edge of a blade, its looming shadow doesn't pass until the people of Skaia know you are well. The relief ignites into reverie, and... it's always a long day and a longer night.

If the routine of your life is a spinning wheel, then its rotation has skipped and jumped a few times. Always because of Jake.

After your address to the kingdom, the Council takes you to their meeting room to catch you up on the goings-on since your sacrifice.

And as you sit at the head of the table and listen, Jake stands next to your chair, conspicuous in his continued presence. Across the table, you can see the way the masters of coin and shield and stone and grain all throw increasingly sharp looks past you at your companion. You should probably step in to do... something. But you don't know what.

At times, you think you're not a very competent Prince. In a crisis, you are golden, but the small moving parts of the day to day elude you. Perhaps because they are so rarely ever left to you.

Idly, without a thought to the company around you beyond Jake at your side, you reach up and tuck a finger under your collar, rubbing against an agitated line in your scar. It's entirely accidental, just a remnant of how long you've spent without it in Jake's presence. But the hush that falls over the room is profound and wakes you in a way you weren't before.

The sudden discomfort in everyone at the table makes your gut twist, and your heartbeat speeds so suddenly, your head feels light and dizzy.

Before the moment can pass, be put aside as an uncomfortable aside for everyone to placidly ignore, Jake takes it in his grasp like a fencer taking up their foil.

"There's nothing here that can't be conveyed in a missive sent up to His Majesty's rooms," Jake says as he takes hold of your wrist, gently pulling you away from where you desperately want to scratch at red skin. "There are festivities to arrange and work to be done by every esteemed master in this room."

His fingers are a firm, gently insistent circle around your wrist.

You look up at him, and find his eyes waiting for you. And there is a clear, bold request in them.

The wheel keeps spinning, but lopsided, like a top about to fall.

You stand, letting Jake move his hand to hold your elbow. The racing, terrified beast in your chest wants to turn to take in what the Council's reaction to this is.

You keep hold of Jake's gaze and nod. "Indeed. I've done my part to cast winter out. Let Skaia revel in its new Spring."

Someone says, "Thank you, Your Majesty," in a confused, rushed voice. You say nothing more, and gratefully let Jake led you from the room.

On the way back to your tower, you ask, "Do you know what you're doing?"

Jake smiles at you. "No, but that hasn't stopped me yet now, has it? Now lets get you abed, you look exhausted."

Now you _can_ look exhausted. You let out a slow, tense breath, that alone more weakness than you'd willingly show to the denizens of this castle. Bed sounds good. When you let yourself, you feel so tired still.

And back in the safety of your rooms, Jake unlatches your collar, brushes his thumb over the irritation worked into the healing wound, and clicks his tongue admonishingly.

You bend into him, trying to keep your breathing steady as he warms a salve between his fingers and works it into the source of your hurt. The heated itch fades.

You should be out in the courtyard, putting in an appearance for the people there. Instead, every muscle in your body aches as Jake guides you down with him on the chaise. "You can get in a nap before supper," he whispers, his hand against your forehead like a benediction.

The fabric of his robe against your cheek is incredibly soft. With his hands settling on you, a light touch pressing you down, as if you would be mad enough to resist. Still, his fingers stroke your hair, and you  _rest._

 

* * *

 

Companionship is an atrophied muscle, weakened for years of disuse and sporadic utility at that. You take time relearning it, what it's like to exist and be observed. The things you do start to matter, just from the fact that someone is around to chronicle the time, to make it real in a way it hasn't been for a long time.

You have been the Prince of Skaia for a long time. But it hasn't felt like it. Your life has been narrowing down to nothing but winters, the lead up to your sacrifices. Everything else has been hard to remember.

Jake's presence changes yours. You can no longer sit with your thoughts for hours without him interrupting you, prompting you to something. He enforces routine. He _talks_  to you.

Over chilled blackberry wine, he slumps low in his chair, tunic rucked up around his shoulders in neck, head lolled on the impromptu pillow of fabric as he stares at you. "Dirk. What do you do in your spare hours? What whittles away your long days?"

You frown back at him, unsure what to say.

The pause for genuine thought makes Jake grimace around a gulp of wine. "Right then. I'm going to not dwell on _that_  because... I don't think I could stand to. So, what did you do _before_  you were made the Winter King? Do you remember?"

There's a slope to his dark eyebrows, as if the weight of his concern is too much for his head to bear. It always makes you feel... like you understand why Jake avoids thinking about certain upsetting things. You think it's the same feeling.

"Before that winter," you murmur, if only because Jake would fret himself into a fit if you didn't at least start to say something. "I... was a scholar. I had special dispensation to borrow from the castle library."

"Not tied to a guild then?" He leans his cheek on his fist.

"The guilds were skeletons back then. If there were a dozen people to each House, I'd be surprised," you explain.

"Empty bloody night," Jake mutters in dark awe.

You trace your scar idly. Your collar is in your bedroom somewhere, where it tends to stay until you venture out. Jake is certain that wearing it daily will slow your healing. In this matter, you don't like arguing with him.

"I don't think I was very interesting before the throne. I... read a lot. I was writing a volume on Skaian bardic music. It might even still exist somewhere, half-finished. And... some art."

"Art," Jake repeats, catching onto that detail immediately. "What kind of art?"

You shrug. "It's... hard to remember. My guardian gave me a set of pigments, left over from his own work. He was a muralist. Charcoals, sometimes."

His lips curl up, pleased. "I could see that. Hunched over a blank book, getting smudges all over yourself."

You look down at your goblet. "That was a long time ago."

"Have you not created any art since... this?"

He is asking what you do, and you cannot surface an adequate answer. It's embarrassing. You are an conditionally immortal Prince of a cursed kingdom, and you're about as interesting as watching paint dry.

Jake, you know by now, enjoys working with his hands. Drying and perserving and separating alchemic ingredients, crafting new things from wholecloth, reproducing well-loved recipes. He reads playbooks and illuminated books, stacking them high against the side of his chaise bed and reading by dimming firelight into the night. He leaves you at least twice a week to go for walks through town, usually bringing you back something from the markets. You've not seen it personally, but know he's a fair shot with a bow.

You...

"I know some people with the Skaian Galleria," he says, and you can hear the forced brightness in his voice. It sounds like a tart, subtle poison; you wince. "I can get my hands on some supplies. Now, appropos of nothing, when's your birthday?"

He smiles openly at you. It does not last long.

You set your wine glass down. "I think I'll retire for the night."

As you get to your feet, Jake jumps to his as well. "Your Majesty. _Dirk_."

By the gods and all their shadows, you just want to avoid this conversation. For the past few months, you've let yourself indulge in the attention and affection from Jake, this broken bridge that someone has reached across to you. But with every word out of his mouth, the old stone crumbles into a blackwater lake, the gap widening, already too far.

You've always stood separate, but this is... illuminating. You are unsure what you are these days, but if this is godhood, a lifetime of unanswered prayers have begun to make sense.

Jake steps close to you, and you lean against your chair, unable to even look at him.

"Dirk," Jake says. "Pick a day."

You frown at the ornate brocade of your winged chair. "What?"

"Any day. Just say one."

Alright, that is strange enough to pull you out of your contemplation of upholstry fabric. There is a mischief in Jake's eyes, gleaming like fae light.

You open your mouth, then shut it again, unsure. "Do you mean a... date, or..."

"Monday through Saturday, Dirk, it's not hard." He prods your arm. "Can't be Sunday, I have plans. Or, could but but-- a named day, sire, come on then!"

"Friday," you say, fast and still deeply uncertain. "Why?"

Jake grins, and finally it's not tempered in some straining bitterness. It's beautiful, and knocks the breath out of you with a loud exhale. He leans in to kiss you, warm and chaste.

"Thank you." He steps back from you, still smiling. "Light that incense cone before you try to sleep. Sweet dreams."

You're not certain if that's a kind bid good night or an explanation. Nodding mutely, you hold his gaze for a moment before retreating to bed, your chest tight as worry and relief war together. But if nothing else, you trust Jake, his determination and his whims. The security of that knowledge helps you sleep.

 

* * *

 

You have sweet dreams often these days.

Some nights, it's a plume of smoke that lulls you to sleep. Other nights, it's a pot of herbal tea. And every once in a while, it's Jake's hand softly rubbing salve into your neck, then his fingers idly brushing your hair.

You don't quite know how Jake made it to this point. A year ago, you think if a handmaiden had come so close and tried this, you would have recoiled. There is something so deeply personal and private about how much it hurts to have someone taking care of you after-- after _so goddamned long_ on your own. You have been that child alone in the night crying before, back when the solitude of your position really started to sink in. Nights in the tower, knowing you'd outlived your immediate family and only knew the latest generation in passing.

Even that desolation faded. It had to, given enough time.

The sort of tenderness Jake brought with him should have made you bristle and retreat. It's easy to attribute it to... him, his immediate attractiveness and charm. But you think it has to be something deeper. Something of guile and desire and a command that belies how readily Jake wears penitent robes and kneels for you.

You've been run through with a blade so often, it feels like a sword's been lodged in your chest for a long time.

You have sweet dreams often these days, and imagine a unexpected, strong set of hands working that blade out of your chest.

 

* * *

 

Friday comes, and Jake is awake before you.

He is in a hooded cloak, but its not the green robe. A plain, oak brown cloak spun from some spring-light material, latched with a brass pin. Folded over his arm is another cloak, and in his hand is a bacon sandwich wrapped in a napkin.

"Oh good," he says as you stand in the archway. "I was about to knock you awake if you slept in much longer. Could you wear that high collar shirt you have?"

"Good morning," you greet mildly.

"Happy birthday," Jake shoots back, almost a challenge, and tosses the cloak to you. "Get dressed, I want to slip out before anyone comes calling for you."

Given such compelling motivation, you are dressed in five minutes, through you linger over your collar and the top buttons of your shirt, treacherously uncertain. Jake looks you over, and his eyes soften. "Best put it on. It'll be a distracting sight to anyone who catches glimpse."

The collar goes on, but its mostly hidden by your shirt. The cloak swung over everything creates enough of a shade that the average observer might not notice the mark of your position. It's a disguise.

Your hands shake slightly as you eat the sandwich Jake pushes into your hands. As you do, he leans out of the room, speaking to your guard for a moment.

"Right," he says after. "Sent him on a pointless errand, but everyone in this blasted castle is so unerringly efficient, we better move." His hand is held out to you. "C'mon then, Your Majesty."

You take it without hesitation.

Led so, you leave the castle. Jake walks the halls at a brisk, almost hurried pace, his fingers tight around yours. It feels like subterfuge, the way you walk near the walls, the way your esteemed guide sometimes pauses and _checks around corners_  before tugging you along.

It's ridiculous. A delirious tension strums through you as you follow along, your breakfast forgotten as you partake in this _escape_  from the castle. Bubbly effervescence fills you, the sheer _gall_  the two of you have to be doing this in the morning light.

Jake leaves you behind at one point on the ground floor to check the bower. You lurk in an alcove and chew your food as he scouts ahead, unable to worth up even the slightest protest.

When the coast is apparently clear, he whistles for you. Shaking your head, you join him, and head out the handmaiden's door to the courtyard.

As you step out into sunshine, Jake spins on his heel to walk backwards, grinning at you. "Pretty good, right?"

"Incredibly daring," you tell him solemnly. "Very impressive."

"You have that sort of tone," Jake says. "Where it's a wash trying to figure out if you're being sarcastic or not."

"I'll alert the fabled Thieves' Guild forthright, inform them that their newest initiate is here and he's a master of escape."

"Ah, there it is. The sarcasm." He shakes his head, smiling. "Gran is going to love you."

Every time you've walked through Skaia, it was following approximately the same path each time, the fastest route from your tower to the front gate to the woods beyond.

Today, you go where Jake leads, taking special care not to look back at the castle behind you, lest one of your advisors be looking out the window and spot you immediately or-- something equally unlikely. What's more difficult is keeping your head down.

You're like a tourist, looking around at everything. Jake draws you down some side lane right off the main market street, dotted with fewer stalls and smaller shops. This is something you've probably not seen since before you were crowned, and it's as foreign to you as another kingdom entirely.

Jake squeezes your hand and slows his hectic pace, instead walking at your side. His fingers loosen their dire grip on your hand, instead stroking his thumb against yours idly.

"Are you quite right as rain there?" he asks quietly.

You nod, but there is a tightness in your throat. Did you miss this? You weren't even aware there was something to miss, but perhaps staying in your tower has let you forget.

Maybe purposefully misinterpreting your sudden silence, Jake buys you a sweet tonic from one of the carts on the side of the street. You sip it, letting the magically cool drink loosen the new hurt in your throat.

"Where are we going?" you ask when you finally can.

"Thought it was obvious. House Harley, Alchemy Guild." He smiles softly. "I mean, not to be a braggart, but I can throw around some considerable weight there. Best place to steal you off to. No one will waggle any tongues."

"Gods forbid any tongue waggling."

"You are lucky its your birthday, you know." He lifts your hand in his and kisses your knuckles. You fingers twitch in surprise, and Jake's eyes flick up to yours, lips still against the delicate bones. Without missing a step, his teeth scrape against you, one sharp movement before he lowers your arms against.

It's a good thing you have a hood over your face, given how much heat floods you.

Jake snickers, but mercifully doesn't push you further. Which is good, since you feel like a glass on the edge of a table, liable to fall over and make a mess of a good day.

Thankfully, the Alchemy Guild isn't much farther. All of the guildhouses are dotted around the center of the town in relative proximity to each other and the Skaia Commons. You recall the wide open air space in the middle of everything as the stage where the Winter King was chosen each year. As you walk, letting Jake guide you, you look out towards the main street to maybe catch a glimpse of what they use it for now.

Before you can, you've arrived. The guildhouse stands separate from everything around it, a squat round building that's just a head above all the shops and houses around it. It's domed roof is build of amber glass like an apothecary bottle, and every windowsill is dripping with hanging greenery, every flowerbox verdant and overflowing.

Above the entrance is the heraldry of the Harley House: bottle, mortar and pestle, nightshade and blooming rose, green and gold.

Beside you, Jake flips his hood off his head with a breezy confidence. "Home sweet home. Welcome to House Harley. Sort of an artifact of a name, given Gran's matriarch and all, but." He looks askance at you. "It's a bit ostentatious, but you should see the Merchant's Guild. Ol' Janey's installed bronze lions around the entrance, _that's_  a bit much."

"It's nice," you say, inadequate but earnest. "No one will mind if..." You gesture to yourself.

"I sent word ahead to Gran, and everyone listens to her. Don't fret." He kisses your knuckles again and pulls you along. "But keep your hood up 'til we're inside, alright?"

The doors are stained glass, the left a portrait of poisons and thorns and sharp curled leaves; the right, adorned with rose hips and lavender and valerian.

Jake pushes the right door open and bows with all the pomp and deference such a thing can withstand, ushering you out of the sunlight and across the threshold into the guildhouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kind of transparently a Part One Of Two but had to split it here cause this birthday is gonna be hoppin
> 
> okay not really but they'll finally bang, so kind of?
> 
> OH SHIT i should mention: I'm rewriting the opening chapters of this, half to fix and enhance shit, half to change a few details so they aren't outright retconned later. chapters one and two are done, and i plan to do three next, and _maybe_ four. there are a fer pertinent changes, mostly to reinforce tone since i did not know wtf this fic was gonna be when i started it, but also: jane is no longer master of coin in the castle, she's part of one of the guilds. mostly because... i love jane and don't want her in a position to be an accomplice in this whole Eternal Winter King thing.
> 
> just a heads up. /thumbs up


	14. willow

You enter the Alchemy Guild, and somewhere a welcome bell chimes.

The entryway is no grand hall or foyer. Instead of the pomp and circumstance you expected to walk into, you are led into a shop. An apothecarium spreads out across the wide room, with a welcoming rug under your feet dusty and overtrod from visitors, tall wooden shelves holding bottles and jars of ingredients in various preparations, and sealed glass cases housing salves and potions and scrolls with herbs and flowers pressed into the parchment. There are amber lights bolstering the natural sunshine that peaks through the stained glass doors, illuminating the room with soft light.

There is also a shopkeep's desk between you and the door that presumably leads deeper into the guildhouse. Standing over the desk is a familiar woman: the Matriarch of House Harley, current guildmaster, and Jake's beloved grandmother.

She leans on one arm, watching over her silver spectacles as you enter, striking you still in place with an appraising look.

Beside you, Jake gasps. "Gran, what are you doing down here? Stooping to initiate labor, working the shop. Is it opposite day?"

Her eyes remain fixed on you as you stand awkwardly two steps into her house and home. "Could be, fates preserve us." She lifts her chin a bit. "Take your hood off, then, you weren't raised in a barn."

Your hand is already lifting when Jake catches it. "You don't have to do anything you don't want. You're our _guest_ ," he says, shooting his grandmother a sharp look.

Jake's grandmother-- and you're not certain how to address her; she has always been Penitent English when you've seen her, but there's nothing of that to her now, secure from offering day-- clucks her tongue, shaking her head. "Honestly. Well, don't lurk in the doorway like a ghost. And flip the sign, Jake."

There's an interesting instinctual obedience to Jake at his grandmother's command. He moves to turn the sign in the window from _open_  to  _closed_  without hesitation. "Why's that? Bit early, isn't it?"

"I already sent most of the initiates home early, and I'm not going to run the till. We'll be closed in deference to the holiday."

You nearly ask what holiday she means before you realize what she means, and lower your eyes to the floor. 

Jake's hand is warm and solid in yours. You're very grateful and cling to it for support as his grandmother waves you along and you follow her past the desk and through the doorway beyond.

"Quiet one," she says over her shoulder.

You cannot keep this up, it's going to make a mockery of you if you let it. "I prefer _reserved_ , personally," you say in a level voice. Making a decision, you push your hood back, letting it fall off your head.

She turns to look at you, and you're unsettled by how familiar the line of her jaw and her green eyes are to you, transposed onto a new face. "I've heard tale of your exploits. Surviving a fatal blow like that is some kind of miracle. I hope my grandson's been taking sufficient care of you."

Jake makes an affronted sound by your side. You only nod, keeping your focus on your host. "Exceptional care. Every day I'm grateful for his knowledge and skills." You hold her gaze for a moment. "You have my thanks."

She grins. "Oh, you're a charmer, aren't you."

"Jake's said many times he owes all his considerable expertise to you. I only speak to impart truth, they say."

Her grin tilts into a smirk, and the resemblance is so uncanny you have to resist the urge to look aside at Jake just to compare. "It's good to meet someone who knows how to show respect to their elders."

"You speak as if I have any."

"What," Jake says, deeply pained, "is happening right now?"

"Relax, boy," his grandmother says with a bark of laughter. "Just testing the mettle of the golden prince."

Already, you can feel some of the tension leaving you. This is _incredibly_  familiar. You can feel the resemblance between Jake and his grandmother, something that runs deeper than their shared lineage, wrought into the way they speak, the candor of their words, and the fearless teasing.

Beyond the apothecarium, the guildhouse opens up in earnest. You pass a stock room, filled with goods to sell on the shop floor. Beyond that, the ground floor expands into a huge, sprawling space. It's dotted with long stone work tables, each with their own set up for alchemic work. Measuring glasses and grinders and small controlled fires adorn each table. Sporadically, floor to ceiling shelves stand tall, their beams thick enough to reach up and support the floor above.

A few tables are occupied by alchemists at work. Glancing around, you imagine there must be less than a dozen people around. Most keep their heads down as you pass; a few peek up at you with curious eyes, but never anything more.

"You weren't kidding," Jake mutters. "Haven't seen it this dead since Candlenights."

"You weren't here last Candlenights," his grandmother points out.

"Oh. Right."

Against the back wall of the workspace is a structure you first mistake for a set of graduated bookshelves. Upon getting closer, you see it's a stairway, leading to the second floor of the guildhouse. The space underneath holds a small library of recipe books and guides to flora and fauna, component lists and other useful texts. Nearby, there are big, worn armchairs with thick cushions, perfect for sitting a spell.

Jake lets you onto the stairs ahead of him, and as your ascend, you can feel soft pressure of his hand against the small of your back.

You get little chance to explore the second flood of the guildhouse; Jake's grandmother continues upward, and you only see from the stairs the vague layout of some storerooms and more involved, expansive work tables.

The third floor seems to be dorms of some sort. She leads you past those as well, still higher into the round building. At the fourth floor, Jake points to closed door. "That one's mine. Most members share rooms or keep board elsewhere, just come in to learn and work. Even my cousin Jade had to bunk before she went to the Botany House. But me, I have my own quarters."

"It's unbecoming to boast," his grandmother calls down from four steps ahead.

"I'm not! It's just-- information! He might find interesting!"

She snorts. "He's always trying that line with people. Wants to sound impressive. How often have you reminded His Majesty of your position of inheritance, Jacob?"

"Not a once, thank you!" Jake argues back, the two of them seeming pleased to cross talk around you. "Bit paltry compared to His Divine Majesty, honestly." Sighing, he adds, "I think I preferred you testing Dirk's mettle, all and all."

The staircase ascends one more level, and banks sharply as it levels out, into a final corridor. Up above you is the domed ceiling of the guildhouse, it's brown bottle glass turning the cascading sunshine into molasses-dark light, enough of a shield that lit candles still sit in their sconces along the walls, brightening the place up.

There are only three doors up here. On your right, the windowed door shows a glimpse of another stockroom, sealed with a large key lock. Ahead, at the end of the hall, is another door with a curved, ornate handle. You're guided through the door on your left, and into a... what you think would be called a sitting room, but the appellation seems wrong. _You_  have a sitting room, adjacent to your bedroom. It is nothing like this.

There is a heavy wooden table in the center, and grand windows that follow the slight curve of the building, many with curtains drawn far enough to dim the rising daylight as it reaches over the tops of the surrounding buildings and further the walls of Skaia. In front of the windows are rows and rows of shelves, all heavy with a generous array of alchemic ingredients and crystals and chunks of amber, all perfectly positioned to throw colored light through the room.

Everything in the room looks like it has been here for the entire existence of the Harley family line and indeed the Alchemy Guild. The stove standing on metal clawfeet, the pots and pans hanging from a wooden rack, the long line of spices and ingredients in jars that were probably once labeled but now are so careworn only the idea of letters remain.

What catches you right between the ribs is how the room smells like Jake. Something green but charged, like cauldron smoke. It's what you'd imagine a campfire in the woods would smell like, if you ever went out to the woods for any season but winter.

There's also a dog, sitting by fireplace. As you enter, it lifts its head to look at you for a moment.

"Just Halley. He's an old thing, won't bother you none," Jake says quietly behind you.

The dog, Halley, lets out a hollow _wuf_  and puts his head back down on the rug.

Jake's grandmother waves you to the table even as she bypasses it to step over Halley, putting kettle of water on the stove. "Sit, boys."

You don't often feel your age, given how... almost worryingly few marks it's left on your body and even fewer on your mind. The ways it should have shaped you have never seemed to set in, clay abandoned beside a kiln. But you know you have seen this woman before her hair was so liberally streaked with grey, and it's a strange dissonance to live with, her calling you _boy_.

Jake pulls out a chair for you. As you sit, she lets out a crack of laughter. "Where did this come from? These fine manners of yours, I've never seen them before."

"Graaaan," Jake moans, looking flushed and even more embarrassed. "I'm just. You said you were willing to help, and I don't think this is helpful!"

"Law of balance. For every evocation and invocation, there must be reciprocity."

"Are you a crossroads demon now? Should I have brought silver sickle and hearthwood?"

"You were trained to be better prepared, squire," she tells him. "How does His Majesty take his oolong?"

Being addressed after so long just... listening to the speed and ease of their banter nearly startles you. "Oh. I don't... I'm unsure." You look at Jake, as he sits beside you, pulling a chair around the corner of the table to settle in at your side.

"Two tablespoons of honey and splash of cream," Jake answers dutifully.

Her eyebrows lift. "Never met someone who didn't have to know which way to take their tea."

You try not to be ashamed. Under the table, Jake's hand presses against your thigh.

His comforting presence doesn't last for long. He's only just settled in when his grandmother says, "Don't get comfortable, son. I need you to run and fetch me some clary sage."

Jake's head whips away from you to stare at his grandmother, lips parting. "Come again?"

She reaches out, back still to you as she prepares tea, and pats the counter nearby. On it is a long line of ingredients pulled from the shelves, and a tall empty bottle. "Order of the High Seer. Another bottle of starsight."

He doesn't move, frowning deeply. "Couldn't it wait? We just got here."

"Sooner you fetch it, sooner you can settle in a spell."

"Gran," Jake starts, but his grandmother looks over her shoulder at him, one quick glance, that sends him to his feet. "Fine, _fine_. Obviously can't expect the High Seer to _foresee_ a slight delay, but fine." He touches your shoulder. "It's just across the hall, I'll be right back, promise."

He leaves you, walking quick enough out of the room, he wings his shoulder on the door, cursing.

He's gone. You're alone with the house matriarch. Setting down a pot of tea before you, his grandmother says, "He's going to look in the private stockroom, of course. I already moved all the clary sage out of there. It'll take him a few moments to realize he has to head downstairs." She hands you a teacup. "We can talk. Provided His Majesty is willing."

You pick up your teacup and blow across the rim, looking at Skaia's alchemy master through the steam. Her lined face and piercing green eyes cut through the haze. You didn't have many expectations of this, but are surprised at your own _lack_ of surprise. This was inevitable somehow.

"I'm amenable," you say.

You imagine the next sharp word from her, the continuation of her banter. You know a performance when you see one, and it's... fun. You enjoyed listening to it, and while you haven't stretched that sort of muscle in a long time, you know you have your own sharpness when pushed. It's rare you find use for it.

Instead, some of the glinting edges drain from her. It's not a softening, like you've seen with Jake, but a settling. Her eyes are narrow on your face.

"You really haven't changed," she says, voice hard but pitched low between the two of you. "We call you eternal, and here you are. Sitting at my table like the last seventy years didn't even happen."

"They did," you say. In a way, this is more familiar territory. "I personally ended each one."

Her teacup clicks against the saucer.

"I remember you," you go on. "When offering days began. No one was certain what to bring, only what was expected. Your first gift was a decanter of silence, meant for me to imbibe when I tired of long meetings with my advisors."

There is only a slight widening of her eyes. Her hands press flat to the table. Perhaps she's hiding a shake. You do your best not to look too closely.

"When my grandson announced he wanted to join the retinue, he weathered a lion's share of teasing from most of the guild. Jake's a good alchemist and a clever menace, but taken to flights of fancy." She lifts her cup to her mouth with hands that could've been carved from walnut wood. "Then, he sent word he was spending Candlenights with you, and asked for advice on a gift."

Swallowing a mouthful of hot tea with a grimace, she goes on, "He said it was unlikely you had anyone for the holiday, and he wanted to be with you. I'll make hay about that boy finally showing some gentlemanly behavior, but the needle in all that, which stings something awful, is I've never seen him like this."

You're unsure what to say. "Is that a bad thing?"

"It's a frightful one, Your Majesty. Taking up with an immortal prince isn't a decision made lightly."

"I admit I have not known him as long as you, but I don't think Jake makes many decisions _lightly_ ," you offer. "Only pretends it's all whim, really."

She smiles; it's not a particularly happy one. "I worried, as grandmothers are obligated to do. Worried that his fixation on you was misplaced. Doesn't do anyone any good to become besotted with a marble statue."

"I'm not." It's hard not to be stung.

"I see that now. But such was my fear. I can pick apart Jake's stories, but there was always this image in the back of my mind. You sitting on that throne, still as desert sky."

The problem is you can see what she means. In fact, she might not be far from the truth. The comparisons to such dire, merciless things is a weight on your shoulders, but until recently...

You know that you are better, these days. So much time has slipped out of your hands, almost entirely without you noticing. A statue broken to pieces every year, only to be reformed over the seasons to be smashed again. It's only with Jake walking into your life and offering you a bottomless well of care that you've woken up.

Not marble. Clay, in gentle hands.

Behind you, the door opens, and Jake staggers in, his fingers wrapped around a cylindrical jar. He holds it up triumphantly.

"Down in the bloody storefront, you can bill me later, thank you!"

He's smiling, the white gleam of his teeth widening for just a moment as his eyes fall on you.

It fades as he takes in the atmosphere and lowers his arm.

"Empty dying night, what'd I miss?"

His grandmother huffs out a laugh. "Nothing meant for your ears. Now sit down. Lets brew this up for the Seer so we can eat some damned cake already."

"Cake, at noon?" You ask, confused.

As his grandmother stands, back turning, Jake whisks in and drops a kiss on your head. "Oh, dear prince, you are _awful_  at this birthday business."

 

* * *

 

To your somewhat demure amusement, you get to watch the Guildmaster and her heir apparent create some very delicate concoction.

While they do skill tradescraft, you sit with another cup of tea and a generous slice of fruit tart. It's a short, wide wedge of plum, red currant, and a heavy cream. Each bite is rich enough to make your progress slow as you savor every one.

The rest of the table is covered in... alchemy. It's not unlike watching a chef and their assistant at work. Jake is set to various tasks, removing components and extricating their relevant parts for the potion as his grandmother puts everything together.

You attempt to follow along. The base is rose water, made only from fresh red petals. Some things you recognize, like the valerian with its intense almost-bergamont scent. Jake removes the pollen and roots from the plant sprigs, taking _meticulous_  care not to mix in anything else before sliding the bowl to his grandmother.

The clary sage is dried out already, and Jake grinds two long stalks to dust as she leaves through a potted borealis to pick out five perfect five-point flowers to add in.

"What is this for?" you ask, curious.

"The High Seer uses it pretty judiciously for her foresight," Jake says.

"You can try a sip before we send it off with the courier," his grandmother says.

"You never let me sample things," Jake mutters.

"Perhaps I'm growing fond of our guest."

At that, Jake smiles, glancing across the table at you as you continue to work your way through the tart. "Can't begrudge you that."

It's almost thirty minutes solid of work, deconstuction and synthesis. The alchemists talk in serious, low tones about the order of ingredients; Jake offers to fetch some tome from the storeroom even as his grandmother continues adding things into the bottle.

When the last item is added, a solid pebble of some pale sap, the contents of the bottle change. The muddied watery liquid darkens sharply, as if the final ingredient were squid ink. Settling, the potion is dark, scattered with pinpoints of light that brighten and fade in a rolling wave. It's not unlike looking into the sky one a clear night.

Jake looks between the bottle and his grandmother, biting his lip. "Fair shake at starsight, then?"

"Yes, it's a fine brew. You've made it before, you don't need headpats or reassurances."

"You've be raking me over the coals since I walked in, I think a little reservation is warranted!"

She takes no notice of Jake's anxiousness, and instead holds out the bottle to you. "Small sip. Just enough to coat the tongue. Let it linger 'fore swallowing."

You can't help looking to Jake before accepting the offer, unsure of what you're being given. At least you know Jake would warn you if needed; since the end of winter, he's been vigilant to say the least, like a navigator tied to a helm, steering through dark waters. But here, he gives you a smile and the slightest incline of his head.

So, you take a sip. Just enough to coat your tongue. It tastes mostly of the rose water, softening the sugar and fruit already flavoring your mouth. The thickness is a surprise; the potion has the consistency of syrup, even in the way is melts and loosens as you roll it around your mouth.

Handing the bottle back, you feel no different. Keeping the potion's name in mind, you look around, in case you.... see any stars, you suppose.

Jake chuckles and crooks his finger at you. "It's not going to do much in here. Come over to the window."

You stand and follow him as his grandmother starts sealing bottles and jars to be put away. He pulls a curtain aside, and shifts some things on the shelves to create enough space to look through.

"The sky," he says quietly. "Look."

You lean in, bracing one hand on the old shelves, and peer through the window. From here you can see over much of the surrounding town, just enough elevation to have a decent view.

By now, the sun should be high, and the sky brightening to the sort of vivid blue that stings the eyes to look directly at.

Instead, it is dark like velvet. That rich inky blue-blackness in the bottle is mirrored in the sky all around, everywhere you care to look. Instead of the blinding white-gold of the sun, you see it hung in the sky like an ornament, and scattered around it are the stars, beaming as brightly as if it were the dead of a moonless night.

Jake's hand settles on your hip as he leans in to speak softly in your ear. "The Seer likes her astrology, but obviously it's hard to consult the stars 'round this time. So, we have a custom brew for her to give her a veil from the glare but clear sight so she can see. Pretty impressive, huh?"

It is. You press closer to the window, twisting to look up. Then, you remember the domed ceiling, and simply tilt your head back.

The darkened glass masks the effect somewhat, but beyond the ceiling you can see a wide open canopy of arcane night.

You are magical. Or, that's one way to think of it, better than 'divine.' Your reckless utilization of your prophecy to create a future for Skaia is as close to magecraft as you will ever get. But this is... different. A sort of magic that feels kind.

Jake stands behind you, his arms folding around you. He's a drench of familiar heat and support, and you rest back against him as you stargaze in midday.

"Well, someone has to do some work around here," his grandmother says, conspicuously loud as you abruptly remember she's there. When you lean away, Jake's hold on you tightens minutely; you turn your head, and remain where you are. "I'll take this over to the Divining Eye. Leave you two to it."

She ties the neck of the bottle of starsight to her hip and picks up a slice of tart in her hand, taking a bite out of it. "Both of you, be good, don't get into any trouble. Or if you do, leave the guild out of it."

"I love you too, Grandma," Jake calls after her. As the door audibly swings shut, he presses his cheek against your spine, and you feel the deep breath he takes, moving you with him.

His hands rub you, even more tactile than you're used to from him. "Dirk. Are you alright? That was a twisty trick she pulled before, I hope she wasn't too harsh." His forehead presses harder against you. "That's not what I wanted for you, for today. I'm... quite vexed about it."

"I'm fine," you tell him.

"Are you? Because you say that a lot."

He's chiding you, gentle but concerned. You sigh, and tip your head back against him. Like this, you can look at the stars some more. "We spoke. Nothing was uncalled for or unearned."

Jake squeezes you. "I'll talk to her."

Turning around takes a lot of silent persuasion, but you manage to face him. "It's really fine. She's been a generous host and I'm grateful for... this. All of it."

Jake smiles slowly. "Can I tell you something, lovely?" He's very close now, bold as brass as he draws in. "I am too. I'd hoped... and this is good, I think? It feels good."

Your answer is a soft noise against his mouth as he kisses you. It's by no means the first time; he's stolen plenty before, and you can vividly remember several very, very good evenings spent enjoying each other's company a little too ardently. But this still feels new.

He doesn't kiss like a thief, like complicit subterfuge. This time, it's... something you've never known before. Nothing about it is plausibly crouched in the solicitous care of a handmaiden. His fingers tighten in the sides of your shirt and it's nothing at _all_  like before.

Something catches, your breath in your throat. You turn your head away to gasp, face flushing hot, pinprick heat over your cheeks. Jake draws back immediately, still close enough his hair brushes against your temple. "Uh, sorry, I--"

"It's alright," Jake murmurs.

"No, I didn't--" There's almost a tremor running through you. You don't know how to explain this, that you liked it, but this time felt so sharply and of something so new you're shivering with _something._  "Don't."

"Not doing or going, it's all peachy keen." One palm strokes your back, just like every time you stumbled after your latest sacrifice and he was there.

A wet thing bumps against your hand, and you nearly jump out of your goddamned skin, whipping your hand up. At your side, Halley sits on his haunches and lets out another oddly basso _wuf_ , giving you an affronted look.

Jake's face disappears against your shoulder as he starts laughing helplessly. "Lords and ladies, that was-- I'm sorry, Dirk, that was the most dramatic I have ever seen you, ha haa."

"Glad to be so entertaining," you grouse. Cautiously, you lower your hand again, back into range.

The dog shoves his head against your palm. Catching on, you pet the silky short hair between his brows, back along his skull and around his ears.

"Hello, there, Halley! No love for me? I've been gone half a year, d'you even notice, you senile old thing?" Jake asks boisterously, flipping one of Halley's ears the wrong way.

"He's beautiful," you compliment quietly.

"He wants to go for a walk. I suspect Gran left that to us on purpose." Nudging your shoulder with him, he smiles. "How's about it? Want to throw your hood back on, we'll go out? You rarely get the chance to stretch those gams of yours, it's a point of much worry for me."

 _Gams_ , you think, and try not to turn red all over again. But he's right. If nothing else, this impromptu birthday has given you a rare gift of relative anonymity. It'd be a shame not to take as much advantage as possible.

As Jake makes smoochy noises at Halley, you follow along, back down the wide spiral of the staircase, and wonder if you'll ever have this again.

 

* * *

 

When you were young, you didn't have any pets. The extra mouth to feed was too much, and only hunters really kept dogs to help with their work. The market stalls were falling apart from disuse as the people who could work them were lost. And winters were so long, you find most of your memories of your youth dominated by images of snow.

And then, you spent... a very long time in the castle.

As you walk through Skaia, you realize belatedly that Jake has taken you away from a place you've been a long time, stolen like some a treasure. You can imagine the thick ring of accumulated dust around a shiny, clean spot where you once stood.

You watch him at your side as he surveys the stalls around you, whistling tunelessly as he enjoys the day like this is nothing.

And for him, maybe it is? But the way his eyes keep darting to you, checking on you, makes you think otherwise.

"Do you want anything?" he asks you after almost ten minutes of companionable silence (and whistling).

"I don't have any coin," you say slowly, having the thought as you speak it aloud.

Jake snorts. "I'm no royal, but I _am_  the heir to a guild. I could spot you, I think."

There are shops and stalls all around you. Something in you aches to duck into every one to sample absolutely everything, each item the people of Skaia deem too insignificant to bring to you in the castle.

You shake your head, heart racing. "I'm fine."

"'Course you are," Jake says, but mercifully doesn't insist.

As you walk, people slow around you. The first few times, you duck your head, shadowing your features with your hood. But invariably, they stop to fawn over Halley. As dogs go, he's a remarkable one, white fur blinding in the sunlight, narrow face strange and ethereal, like he belongs at the head of some Wild Hunt.

"He's very popular," Jake stage whispers to you.

"I can see that."

Eventually, Halley veers off the main street to one of the side paths. The diversion doesn't seem to concern Jake, so you don't question it.

There is an open space nestled between some houses here, the cobblestone giving way to a wide ring of green verdant grass, dandelions, and a towering willow tree. It's hanging branches are springy and coated in long, feather silver leaves, almost gleaming in the light.

"Oh, I wanted to grab some of these," Jake murmurs. From his pocket, he pulls out a small pair of shears, walking right up to the tree.

"You're just going to...?" You hover nearby, unsure if you should... play lookout?

"Well, we planted it!" He laughs brightly. "Or, the Botany Guild did, but they're bosom buddies with us. While back, our guilds worked together to transplant some useful flora into the city. Makes it a little easier, don't need to trek outside the walls so often." He tugs a weeping branch lightly. "This is _practically_ mine."

You shake your head and duck under the canopy. "Perhaps your grandmother was onto something. You are trying to be impressive today."

"Trying! Am I only trying?" He sweeps some branches aside to pout at you. "You wound me."

No good could come from encouraging him. Instead, you find Halley sniffing around the trunk of the tree, circling around it twice before deciding his approval and just sitting down next to it, panting happily, tongue lolling out of his mouth.

He looks at you and _wufs_.

Looking back at Jake, he's still snipping away at the branches, whistling again.

For lack of anything else to do-- there are no market stalls in this small courtyard, and it'd be rude to look into random houses to sate your curiosity-- you gingerly drop down beside Halley. The moment you settle, the dog lays down, his head on your leg, big dark eyes giving you a pleading look.

"Alright, fine," you mutter, and stroke his furry head with your fingertips.

Halley's eyes close. His head is surprisingly solid and heavy on you. It's nice.

The shifting spots of sunlight ripple as Jake parts them to look at the two of you.

An expression you've never seen before on anyone before seizes his face: lips parting just so, eyes narrowing on you as his brows pull down at the corners, his face softening all over just from the sight of you.

You freeze like a doe caught by a thunderclap. "What?"

"Oh," Jake says. "Nothing. You sure look comfy as kittens. Can I join you?"

You nod, unsure what to say.

Jake lowers himself down at your side, so close his hip and leg press firmly against yours. You look at him, confused, and only find a whisper of a smile in his face. Reaching up, you expect he'll fix your hood where it's slipped out of place, but he tugs it back, off you, stirring your hair as it falls.

"Just for a moment," he says quietly. "Do you know... I think you might have freckles here too, under your eyes. Might come out with a little sunlight."

There is a tightness in your throat you cannot speak around, like stone, like marble.

It's for your own damned survival that you turn your head away, watching the way Halley's ears twitch are you brush by them. All the while, you can feel Jake's gaze on you, like kindling begging for a match.

 

* * *

 

The weird intensity of your outing releases its grip as the day bleeds to evening, settling into a warm piquancy as you return to the guildhouse. Jake finally goads you into picking out something from the shops, and you walk back with long skewers of chicken with some sweet, nutty sauce that tinges your fingers yellow. You lick them clean each time, inordinately happy with something as pedestrian as street food.

"We should cook up something proper," Jake tells you. "I can check what we have."

"I'm good." You pull the last piece of satay off the stick with your teeth. "Not hungry."

"I wish you'd eat a little more. It's a not insignificant point of worry, you know."

"You don't have to."

"I do! And nothing puts up my hackles more than knowing no one else _does_ , it's--" He bites off whatever he wants to say next. "Alright. But you should have another slice of tart. Don't want to offend my gran."

Remembering the tart fondly, you decide you could handle that. "I could stand another slice."

Jake chuckles. "Well, good. How about..." You're on the fourth floor landing when he coaxes you to a stop. "Actually, wait here a mo'."

He's only gone a moment, upstairs, then back to you, holding the plate of tart with a fork in hand. "This way."

With a key from his belt, Jake unlocks a door, and pushes it open. Inside is darkness. "Oh, starblight, let me... Hold this, thanks."

After some production, you're holding a tart, standing in a long, narrow bedroom with fresh candles lit to illuminate the space. The shape is odd, like a half moon, one wall following the circumference of the guildhouse. There are windows, but every one of them is covered with stubborn, dark curtains that have a light coating of dust on them, enough to show how seldom they're moved.

Directly right of the door is a bed, flush against the flat wall, the green patterned blankets spread out in a weak attempt of being properly made. Beyond it is a long work table, like the ones on the ground floor. It's covered in dog-eared books, coiled parchment rolls, and about four different stone bowls with mixmatched pestles. There are bottles, unlabeled, lining two edges.

Jake grimaces and nudges a few bottles back onto the desk before they fall. "Should've cleaned up in here first..."

You step carefully out of the doorway and onto the worn rug covering the dark wooden floors. Setting the tart down on the bedside table, you turn around, taking in everything else. There are bookcases, filled to the brim with books and pamphlets and jars of sand and glittering rocks, and a few polished white animal skulls. Over his bed, there is a collection of placards, nailed to the wall in overlapping array. Each one seems to be from a different performance at the Skaian Galleria, plays and musical performances and dancers and recitations. A few are old enough to be curling at the corners from age.

"Not so grand as your tower, but..." Jake gestures around the room.

"Did you go to all of these?" You ask, pointing to the wall of orantely printed bills and painted posters.

"Most of them! But I took any that looked nice, really. They tend to throw the ones they don't need out, so didn't mind handing some over." He follows your gaze, looking at the collection fondly. "I've not been in a while."

There's enough packed into this room, you think you could stare all day, cataloging every detail and trying to piece them together with what you know about your handmaiden and companion. There is a fissure of anxiousness in Jake, though, and when he asks if you'd like to sit, you do, gingerly, on the edge of his bed.

For most of the day, Jake has been almost unerring on top of things. Even the verbal strikes from his grandmother were repaid in kind, and with a sort of candor that spoke of familiarity. Now, his dark cheeks are flushed, and he looks more unfooted than you've maybe ever seen him before.

"This is alright, isn't it?" he asks, then winces, like he didn't mean to say that aloud.

"Yes," you say, taking a bite of your birthday tart.

"Good. Excellent." Letting out a hard breath, he seems to relax. Almost inevitably, he jumps at nothing, and slaps his forehead. "Oh, I-- there's something I need to get. I can't believe I've let things get away from me. Will you... sit tight for a sec? I'll be back. Oh, you can--" He waves at a tall dresser sitting awkwardly against the curved wall. "I have spare clothes, if you want... I'll be back soon, alright?"

You nod peacably, and watch him nearly sprint out of the room, more bemused than anything. You spent so long being the one out of his depths here in House Harley. It's gratifying to have things flipped on their axis like this.

But something does sink in with his parting words. You're staying the night. Dressed up in the same ensemble from your early morning, this won't be easy to sleep in.

Finishing another bite of tart, you unlace your boots and place them neatly by the door. Then, consulting with Jake's wardrobe, you find a loose linen tunic that would be a little big on him. You'll swim in it.

Glancing at the door, you steel yourelf and undress. Everything is neatly folded and set on top of the dresser. You pull the tunic on.

It nearly reaches your knees, completely covering your smallclothes.

You've never worn someone else's clothes.

You sit on his bed again, and shove more tart into your mouth.

When you finish the plate, you... can't call for anyone to take it away. So you add it to the mess on the desk, and sit back down to wait. You read everything hanging above his bed, twice over.

Jake fairly bursts back in, and that _look_ returns as he sees you sitting there. The strange mix of intensity and... something you know but are still too afraid to give name.

He has a stack of things in his arms. When you notice them, he snaps back into motion, shutting the door and sitting with you on the bed, leaving plenty of space between. "Sorry that took so long. I... frankly had to make one of these very quickly."

"What are they?" you ask.

"It's your birthday," Jake says, and rests everything on the bed. "They're for you."

They're for you. Each one has a pale orange ribbon wrapped around them. After you catch your breath, you pick up one, and pull the big, ostentatious bow loose.

It's a box the size and shape of a slim book, light in your hands. The lid has a little sliding latch; you open it with a nail, and lift it. Inside, there are carved, round hollows in the wood, and each one is filled with pigment. Red and violet and indigo and white and black and green and yellow, even a small amount of silver dust.

You shut the box with a sharp snap. Jake takes it, saving it from the tremors in your hands before you do something unforgiveable like drop it.

He hands you another. This one is an actual book, bound and sturdy. When you pull the ribbon loose and open the book, every page is blank.

You put it down on the bed and clench your hands into fists, willing them to _stop shaking already_. It's embarrassing. It would be embarrassing if you were with anyone else but Jake, who doesn't say a damn thing and just waits for you to settle.

When you open your hands again and shake them out, he hands you the last box. Ribbon off, you open that one too.

There are sticks of narrow, darkened wood. You pick out out and rub it against your thumb. It leaves a mark in soft, black charcoal. There's a dozen in the box, at least.

"You enjoyed art once," Jake says, voice a ghost of a murmur. "Pigments and charcoals, you said. Picked up the pigments from the Galleria. The charcoals are actually willow, you know? They're fresh made, I know I was cutting it a bit close there, but."

He made them for you. You shut the box, dropping it on his bedspread. A spare thought, hoping it doesn't knock open and make a mess, but even that is washed away under the flood that rushes over you. Bending forward over your lap, you press the heels of your hands against your eyes. It hurts to take a breath, and you hear the hitch, and don't know what to do here.

Jake shoves everything to safety, further onto the bed, and scoots closer to you, even as you shake your head at him, hoping he'll stay back. Of course he doesn't, wraps his arm across your shoulders and folds around you as you try to duck away, hide.

"It's alright," he says directly into your ear, hands sweeping over you. "You're alright."

This isn't alright at all. You've been given gifts before. Plenty of times, honestly. The right reaction is to show gratitude, to say something, not just collapse in on yourself like this. There's nothing dignified about the strained, catching breaths you drag in, or the way your throat _hurts_ as you try to strangle the noises that claw out on every exhale. You press your hands against your eyes hard enough to sting, trying to stopper the dampness.

Jake's hands settle, curling around your neck, thumbs stroking your hairline as he mouths platitudes and aimless kisses against your temple, your forehead, even your hands where they press against your face. None of it makes sense.

Once it starts, you can't make it stop, and the sensation is like trying to hold back a runaway horse with coarse rope. It hurts. Every part of it just hurts.

You loosen your grip a little, and let out a flayed croak of breath. That helps, somewhat. You stop trying to shove your fists into your eyes and that helps too, even if now the tears fall unimpeded. Bit by bit, you loosen your grip, and feel like Jake's taking each forfeited burden from you, until your face is pressed against his chest and his hands stroke soothingly through your hair.

You don't know what you're crying about. You know _exactly_  what you're crying about, but thinking about it is like trying to pick up a hot coal. It's too painful, too intense. But you can still feel the heat of the idea.

You're the King of All Winters, the Eternal Prince.

You didn't mean for that to happen. It was an accident.

 

* * *

 

The candles die out before too long. They probably haven't been replaced in a long time, and the wicks give out sooner than expected.

The blank book, pigments, and charcoals are stacked neatly on the bedside table. Even without the candlelight, you can just barely see the shape of them in the dark as you lay on your side.

You ask Jake about the charcoals. Your voice is splintery and rough.

"S'not too hard," he says, sighing. His breath is warm against the back of your neck. "You have to take some sturdy clippings from a willow, peel them, chop them down to size. Then put them in a small clay pot and heat them up." His arm's heavy around you, and his thumb runs up and down the mountains and valleys of your knuckles. "Point's not to burn them, just cook them as hot as you can without setting them on fire. I might've undercooked them, actually. If they're no good, I'll make new ones. Employ some actual bloody patience."

He closes his thumb and forefinger around most of your wrist, as if measuring it. "Will you use them? What'll you draw?"

"Practice, first. Just shapes. See if I remember how to do it."

"Makes sense." He lets go, slides his hand down to press against your chest, just under your ribs. "Nice shirt."

You snort. "It's yours."

"Never looked so nice on me. You should take it back with us."

Maybe you will. The way Jake dropped every facade and pretense he had like a fumbled platter, leaving just _longing_ , that was fairly gratifying. You could stand to see it again.

"We'll have to go back in the morning," you say quietly. "Before I'm missed much more."

Jake hums absently behind you.

You wait.

"I liked this," he says, breaking a long stretch of silence. "It suited you well."

"Yeah," you breathe. "In another life."

"It doesn't have to be--"

"Stop." There is metal in your voice, the sword in your chest made useful.

There is a whine in his voice as he demands, "Why _not_?"

Because there is a Horror outside the kingdom's walls, and it will always want blood. Because you grew up in a world that was nearly bled dry, and you tripped into a solution. Because you walked through Skaia and saw how people lived these days, and knew down to your bones that without you, none of it would have come to pass. Because if you left, every piece of it would come crumbling back down.

Because once upon a time, you thought you were clever.

Instead of telling him that, you take a deep breath and say, "I won't put anyone else through this." And tap one finger against your collar.

Laying there, you feel Jake shift, his chest no longer tucked up against your back. The band around your neck loosens, and you watch dimly as Jake leans over you to drop it carelessly on the bedside table.

He settles back down. You shut your eyes. His bed is smaller than yours, but you think you like that.

You fall asleep, and decide there's definitely something to the birthday business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long one.
> 
> /collapses


	15. lemongrass

There is a catalog of unknown experiences when you wake up in the early morning.

The bed isn't yours. It's significantly smaller, enough so that to fit you and your companion, you're left with only an inch of room. If you aren't careful, your arm will fall right off the bed and hit the nightstand. But it's warm, and there is something you like about the closeness.

You have never woken up in a new place like this. Or at least, not in a _very_  long time. The furthest you've been from you own bed is the chaise chair in the sitting room. As you open your eyes, you have to remember where you are, blinking blurrily around the dark room.

There is someone with you. That is perhaps the most novel experience. He's tucked up very close to you, his chest so close to your back, you can feel him move with every steady inhale and exhale. It's warm, too warm, but you are no going to move until you have memorized this feeling of waking up, all of its disparate details and the cumulative experience.

It's difficult to do that with his hand on your thigh.

You borrowed his shirt to sleep in. Jake's fingers are pulling it up, just an inch at a time, as he strokes your leg. The touch is light, mostly the drag of his fingertips and the line of his nails. Laying still, you let the feeling seep into you until something inside you fills, and you shiver.

He mouths at your bare neck, lips just under the harsh line of your scar. "Mornin'," he says, soft vibration.

Your fingers clench in the pillow under your head. "Time to go?"

"No rush."

He certainly isn't in a hurry. The exploratory stroke of his hand flips from a sweet agitation to soothing and back again, until the hem of your borrowed shirt is pushed up from your leg. He likes your legs; he's implied it a few times. It makes you feel good. Warm. Not _warm_  like before, but...

You try very hard to lie still, trying to be conscientious. Instead of being pleased, Jake presses his forehead against your shoulder and grips your thigh with a wide-splayed hand.

He sighs your name, and you think 'laying still' isn't exactly what Jake's going for here.

Shifting restlessly, you push back against him, exhaling hard. He makes a little abortive noise in his chest as he helps you along, pulling you against him, gripping your hips and siding you back over the sheets. Your hips cradled against his, you can feel he's hard, a firm line jutting against you.

He holds you still for a moment, as if to ensure you feel it, his forehead rocking against you as he lets out almost subvocal noises. You push back best you can, vindicated by his rocking forward in response.

A small voice in the back of your head thinks you should talk about this first, perhaps. But it's speaking through layers of sleep-drenched heat and a sort of peacefulness you've never felt before. It's dark here, and safe, and it's been such a long time since anyone touched you with any intent. The undercurrent of tension that's been your constant companion is silent and you just want to rejoice.

For a while, the only sound is your shared breaths, hushed in the quiet and with each of you muffling yourselves, against skin and against the pillow. Friction to heat. There are teeth worrying a spot into your neck, and it's good.

In a moment of wordless unity, you and Jake reach down, nudging the covers off. His hands finally slide under the hem of your borrowed shirt, pushing it up to your hips. Simultaneously, you hook your thumbs into the band of your smallclothes and push them down. You can only reach so far, but manage to catch them with your heel, dragging them off to be immediately lost in the bed sheets.

He curls his hand around your hip, touching bared skin, and smothers a groan.

It doesn't feel like being ravished or seduced. More a place you are both settled in together. Your legs bend and sweep through the bed as you roll onto your front. Heavy and solid, Jake follows you and takes the offer to kiss along your spine, punctuated by a slight scratch of stubble.

Voice catching in your throat, you brace yourself on your forearms, just pushing back. You bite your lip, growing protective of the silence and not wanting to break it.

He leans his body against you, hands petting you everywhere he can reach, sliding one hand far up your chest to vaguely massage one pec. You almost laugh at the groping, ducking your head. But there is something weirdly erotic about feeling the full force of him pressing you down, how it's nearly enough to make your arms shake. Weakness is not the word. Vulnerability, maybe.

The press of his cock fits better against your ass this way. Hips pinned flat to the bed, his mouth exploring your shoulders, he doesn't have much leverage but has no problem eliminating distance with an uncouth shake of his hips.

You laugh, sleepy huffs of sound, only to cut off into a gasp when he pinches your nipple between two fingers, a good deal harder than you ever anticipated.

You twist to look back at him, batting his hand away. It almost sends you falling onto your side. His palm presses flat against you, stroking as he kisses your ear apologetically.

"Sorry," he whispers, barely a whisper, barely anything. Just enough. "Not particularly princely care."

"Don't need princely," you reply, much the same, and lower your forehead against your arm. "Just..."

"Alright, alright. Less of a cad, right." He nudges your limply splayed legs with a knee. "Here."

Your spread, face heating, working your knees apart and into the mattress, careful not to tumble off the side of the damn thing. Above you, Jake hikes up the blanket, tossing it over the both of you, bringing another layer of darkness over everything. As he settles again, he reaches between your legs and just takes ahold of your dick with no preamble, no hesitation.

The instinctive jerk of your body doesn't get you far. You have nowhere to move with him bearing you down into place, can barely even move your hips as he strokes with a light touch. You sway, as much as you can, and he follows you with zero effort, and just keeps touching you, a little shiver of pleasure like static building.

Letting your head hang, you breath deeply, every exhale tinged with a sigh.

It's a relief when he stops; it's enough to get you hard but not enough to get you further, and you would take it, all of it, just to not break the quiet your in. But he lets go, and you slump further, spine dropping into a curve he immediately traces with two fingers. All the way down, easing back off you, to press his fingertips against your ass.

You nod, in case he needs that.

If he does, he says nothing. It's a leisurely pace he's set, testing every span of skin he can, pressing and stroking and squeezing, like you're dough that requires kneading. Equal parts impatient and soothed, you push back against him, a helpful hint.

"Hang on, wait--" Jake flips up one corner of the blanket, breaking the little private hollow you've been enjoying. His hand stretches, but not far enough. "One sec," he mutters tersely, leaning far past you to brace on the edge of the bed and reach his bedside table.

The moment isn't _broken_  exactly, but you do sink onto your side, arm tucked under your head as you wait.

Jake pulls open the drawer in the nightstand, squinting into it. It must be difficult; his spectacles are still folded up on top, and there's not so much as a single candle. He puffs out his cheeks, letting out a long stream of air.

Picking out a bottle, he hauls it close to his face, squinting at the label. Frowning, he puts it on top of the table, and pulls out another and squints at that one next.

It also joins the first bottle on the table. You sigh and wiggle around until you're more comfortable. The lifted blanket lets out the body-warmed air (or perhaps lets the cool air _in_  either way), and you rub your skin to try and keep warm.

There's three bottles and four cylinder canisters on the table before Jake gives a wordless noise of triumph and shoves the drawer shut, one lacquered box clutched in his fist. He sways back onto his knees, and looks down at you, the blanket draped around his shoulders.

"Got it," he informs you, his eyes practically dancing over your lazy sprawl.

"It and half medicine chest," you point out.

"Tish tosh, better than having to make a mid-coitus run to the storeroom." He bends down close to you. "Did I keep His Majesty waiting?"

You know, without a shadow of a doubt, he's getting close to see you properly. He's ridiculous, undressed with bedhair and half-blind.

You kiss him, taking the blanket from his shoulder and drawing it up again. Jake, with casual strength that makes every part of your body wake up under a rush of heat, drag you lower on the bed, under him, and turns you over again. On your stomach, you grip the sheets, gasping at the manhandling.

His legs hold yours open, much wider than before. Vunerable, not weak, you remind yourself sharply, trying to lie still. The sudden tension in your body must be obvious, because he pets your back. "Easy. Take it easy."

There's the sound of him working with the little box, then one slick-smeared finger sliding against you, catching against your hole and slipping away again. The rest of his words melt into incoherent murmurs, closer to a comforting hum than anything as he traces slow circles with an increasing pressure so gradual, you only notice it when he gets into you.

Just one, working into you as he mumbles into your neck. Even that's so overwhelming, your mouth falls open around our deep, hard breath, eyes lidding.

He's always been a lot more patient than you. This is a testament to that; while he works you open, you soften under him, the immediacy of this simmering. You lay your head in your arms as he scoops more thick slick from the box on his fingers, taking his time with you in a way that... You're not about to drift off, but your mind is on that precipice, where everything is calm and dark, not a single coherent thought catching.

"Are you falling asleep on me?" he asks, rocking his fingers in deep and holding them there. It pushes a long breath right out of your mouth.

"No." You open your eyes with some effort. "Hands. Your hands. They're good."

That makes him grin, far too bashful for someone who's been working you open for the past... however long, who still has his fingers _in_  you. "I hear that a lot. It's never as nice as from you." He kisses your jaw, under your ear. Takes his fingers out. You shudder, feeling wet and open. It's been lifetimes since you felt anything like it, and it was never like this.

He coaxes you up onto your knees again. Out of sight, you can hear the wet sound of his hand on himself for a moment. Then, blunt pressure and heat, nothing at all like his fingers.

Your fingers curl against the bed, waiting for the tension, and dull pain. It doesn't come; you part for him easily, his dick sinking in and in and in as your body just lets him in. The feeling is intense, and your gaze slides up, unseeing at the blanket over you until he bottoms out.

Jake sighs into your ear, sweet and fond. "Perfect. That's the ticket."

You flush under the praise, ducking your head. It's been so long since you've done this and your memory is hazy, but he feels big. Just considering it makes you clench down on him, entirely involuntary, and he rocks into you, groaning.

He calls you _lovely_  in a reverent voice as he-- 'fuck' is a vulgar word for it, even if it's accurate. It's sex like a rolling wave as he coaxes you to move with him, not against. Small shifts and readjustments get you bone deep and he moves in you, holding you prone beneath him with his weight. One hand on your hip, his fingers tight and commanding. The other finds yours and laces your fingers together, your knuckles brushing against the headboard with every slow thrust and roll of your bodies together.

Like this, he can't reach your mouth, and instead keeps his lips presed against the hinge of your jaw, close enough you're forced to endure every awed appelation and the way his voice gets rougher and rougher.

In that quiet dark place, you lose track of everything except him, your world narrowing down to the taste of hot air and his dick and his voice in your ear. It's a brand new alchemy, taking the frost that's coated your heart for a century and turning it... well. Into the sort of thing alchemy turns things into, gleaming and hot metal and bright and strong. Not lead, but gold.

When you come, your grip on his hand tightens, probably too hard, but he only clutches you closer, murmurs declarations in your ear, and follows you all the way down as you fall.

In the aftermath, you keep hiding together. Jake bundles you against him, shivers running through him as settles. Keeping your hand laced with his, he lifts it to kiss your knuckles.

Eventually, the heat becomes too much and you pull the blanket down, just enough to breathe. It lays over your shoulders. Still too warm, but manageable.

"This suits you," Jake tells your neck, nuzzling drowsily. "I like you this way."

You shut your eyes, and breathe. Even through the fog, you know those words and all the danger they still carry. You wonder if he even meant to say them again.

Now. Now it's time to go.

Or, five minutes. You'll give yourself five minutes.

 

* * *

 

In the wake of it, your birthday feels like it has stretched much farther than a day. The step outside the castle and the glimpse at another life is so rich in your head, as you return to the castle, you feel as though you're returning from a long trip away, as though everyone will regret your absence, as thought everyone will _notice_.

But it's been a day. One very good day. Jake walks at your side, his shoulder bag bulging from carrying your gifts and some supplies he needs.

This return can go two ways, you believe.

The first is a reverse of your earlier escape _from_  your tower. Careful shadows and patience and something close to subterfuge as you retreat back up the tower. If you made it all the way back, perhaps you could pretend your outing never happened. Let it be put away in a box never to be opened again.

Jake is clearly ready for that, ready to run ahead to check the bower entry, to ascertain the best path in.

Instead, you beckon him along, and he follows you, eyebrows lifted in surprise as you lead the way through the front gates, pushing your hood off your head. Your collar is on, and peeks out from the cloak to gleam in the light.

This is the way you want it all to fall into place; no sneaking around. Instead, when the head of the royal guard walks you back to your rooms, asking you where you've been, you say, "I took a personal day on my own. Sometimes, I wish to walk among the people I spend so much time protecting."

You've had years to learn the art of careful phrasing. There is nothing that anyone in the castle can say to that. The explanation silences them all, and you are soon left alone as your council and guard meekly leave you to your rooms.

Just you, and Jake, who gives the sitting room a severe look.

"Well, that's presumptuous of them!" he grouses, walking over to the chaise to sit on it heavily. "Tidied up in here, didn't they? And took my nicely made bedding with them! I left it looking presentable, I don't know where they--" He sighs. "It doesn't matter. I know where the linens are. I'll grab more pillows and sheets and just redo it. If the Matron thinks I'm easily cowed, she's got a masterclass lesson coming."

That should be a relief to you. You've had the luxury of waking up to Jake in your sitting room for a fair length of time now. Isolation is still a fresh memory in your mind, but you can feel it being led further and further away.

You definitely want to keep waking up to your companion's sleepy, warm company. But you still frown at the chaise.

You keep frowning about it for the rest of the day, like your face has stuck. Jake unpacks his bag, setting up new ingredients on his work table by the window, and you both open the windows to let in the sun and air out the tower. Later, Jake slips off to the library to take out another set of playbooks to read.

Then, after supper, he sits at his table and pushes up his sleeves to get to work. He once asked you about your hobbies and you did not have an answer that wasn't pathetic, but now you know at least _watching you create things_  is your favorite past time.

You follow the smooth movement of his hands as he pours out a measure of almond oil from a large bottle, half-filling a glass jar. He retrieves the new bundles of lavender and lemongrass that he brought from the guildhouse, the way he unties and reties the ribbon around each one, separating a few stalks.

There's a carefulness, as he leans forward on one elbow, and examines his materials with two fingers tracing down the drying flora. His hands are always a distraction.

Your sketchbook and charcoals are on the tea table, pushed to the edge to make room for the tea pot. It might be a good inaugural sketch, the way Jake bends over the bench seat to the table, the angles and lines of his body, his exposed neck.

You also know you would be biting off far more than you could chew.

Still. You should do _something_. Picking up the tin of charcoals and the book, you wander over to join him. There's space on the long bench, between his body and the window. Here there's enough sunlight still for you to work by.

Jake turns his head just enough to smile at you before refocusing on what he's doing, working the drier ingredients with his pestle, spreading out the rest on the table.

"Do you want a candle," he murmurs.

"I'm fine." You take out one of your willow charcoals and press it against your thumb, testing it.

The weight of his regard slips away and you almost breathe a sigh of relief. You fear he might have the wrong idea about this. It really has been... a very long time since you've tried this, and you're out of practice in a way other people can never be, just with as little time they have.

You start with circles. Turning in place so you can brace your arm right, you draw nothing but circles for an entire page, trying to find the muscle memory in the dusty vaults of your mind.

A few you turn into objects. A few phases of the moon, imperfectly transcribed, one of Jake's jars, one rote shaded sphere.

They're... recognizeable. You're not thrilled with them, but when you glance to see, Jake isn't watching, and that helps somewhat.

Turn the page. Start again.

Tucking your hair behind your ear, you lean your chin in your hand, and try to draw the stalks of lavender Jake's left out. Not with any sort of detail, but the smudged shape of the thing, its almost triangular height, the outstretched buds at the bottom, the way they cluster smaller and closer near the top.

Jake picks that stalk up to work with it. So, you draw the next one instead, trying to capture the way it starts straight but curls in under its own weight halfway up. A little more irregular, with a few missing stems.

You only remember distantly what your skill level was before you were Prince. That helps, makes every time you show off something fairly decent all the more gratifying.

You have a page of errant lavender stalks, each with a little more detail than the last, a few more wobbly than others. You draw the mortar and pestle when Jake puts it aside, and the jar of oil again, trying to capture depth.

"Oh, hang on," Jake says suddenly. You life your head in surprise. It's darker now and somewhere along the line, an oil lamp on the table was lit. You blink out of your strange doze. "Were you drawing the lavender? You should have said, I would've left them alone."

You blink at him. "No. Or, I was. But it helped. I could only focus on one until you used it. It's practice."

"If you say so," Jake says, leaning in to look at your book. There's an instinctive reaction to cover it, but you squash it down. Jake is the last person in the world who would take fun at your inconsistent little sketches.

He smiles, and leans in further to kiss your temple.

You can't help but think about your birthday. How enamored Jake was with the idea of having... that. How it suited you.

Hopefully, this isn't a disappointment to him.

"Well, this needs to steep for a few days," Jake says, putting a lid on his filled jar of oil and herbs. The lingering scent of lemongrass is bright like spring, like inhaling the yellow-green itself. Before long, you think this table is going to be imbeded with the oils and scents of Jake's work, soaked into the wood inexorably. It'll be marked by his presence just like everything else in your life.

Speaking of.

"I should go fetch the linens for my bed," he says, cleaning his hands with a cloth. "Before it gets too late and I don't want to do it."

In the forefront of your mind is the memory of him cupped against your back, and how you slept deeper than you have in ages. At least, without alchemic intervention. Having him warm and close soothed you more thoroughly than any tonic or mixture he's aided you with.

There must be something of this on your face because he gives you a bemused look. "What's that face for, Your Majesty?"

Your hand clenches so hard, you can feel the charcoal creak in protest. "Don't go." It's a croak of words, and you frown at yourself. "Or, you don't have to go and... do that."

Jake lifts his eyebrows, and says nothing. He's going to make you say it. Gods, he can be implacable and stubborn.

"I have a very wide bed. It doesn't get the use it deserves. If you wanted, you could..." You lose confidence, looking down at your hands.

"What, with how you snore?" Jake laughs, and you gaze snaps up to him with pure surprise. "No no, I'm kidding. I-- don't have a response that doesn't make me sound like a complete dandelion head, liable to lose my wits at the first stiff breeze." He wraps his arms around you, head aganst your neck. "I'd be honored, obviously."

You let out a sigh of pure relief and lean your head against his. You didn't want this to go awry, but knew it could. It could've been a bridge too far.

Your collar comes loose, and his lips brush your neck very softly. It's a ticklish feeling, and you shiver, holding onto him tighter.

"Besides," Jake says muffled against your skin, "having an actual bed will make seducing you much easier. Which is certainly appreciated, Your Majesty. Much easier to call you back to bed than to the admittedly very comfy sofa."

"So that was your plan all along," you reply, even as you lean harder against him. "To seduce the last sitting royal of Skaia. A tall feat."

Jake pinches your side, holding you still as you squirm. "But certainly worthwhile. An admirable life's work." Before you can invent another step in this repartee, he kisses you soundly, and you obligingly let the matter drop in favor for  _this._

Later, Jake whispers, "Come to bed," and you think this life isn't so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because if you spruce up a cage, it's less of a cage, isn't it, dirk
> 
> btw rewrites are done up to "cherry wine" which i still super need to rewrite arrrrgh. but weekends are workends for me and i'mma be busy.


	16. vinegar

It's a fine day for an anniversary, right on the cusp of summer and autumn, with the hot air releasing its stranglehold on Skaia. The entire kingdom has lived under the canopy of parasols and the merciful cool relief of mounted breeze charms inscribed into every wooden doorway and arch. All through the season, artificers hurried from shop to shop, home to home, re-carving the runes as the heat of the summer wore them away as surely as the ocean wiping away a message in the sand. Each time, the wood was thinner, closer to needing a replacement.

The heat isn't such a burden on you. You grew up bent in rooms full of cauldrons and fires and hardworking alchemists, shielded from the world outside by windowless walls, lest someone thief the secrets of the guild. Still, the carrying-on of Skaia is fun to watch from the window in the Prince's tower.

Time, though. It's an unfortunate thing that slips through your hands.

A year has passed since you first spoke to Dirk, first touched him, first made a decision about your life that wasn't expected of you. The guildmaster position has been something of a lock for you since you were a young man, singled out and put to work at your grandmother's side. With the deepest secrets of the family in hand, your future was fairly clear.

Then, a handsome Prince with a pleathora of sad smiles who was malleable in your hands.

You watch him dress from the vanity seat, looking through the mirror as he puts on royal vestaments with white-gold accents. Finery that was obviously tailored just for him. You lean back and tilt your head, looking at the way his pants fit him. Very nice.

Still, it's a sign of the day. You'd woken up expecting to try to loop Dirk into some sort of outing. Failing that, you thought about reliving that first meeting with him, but a little more saucy. You've learned a lot of ways of entertaining yourself from your knees.

Somehow, you forgot the _other_  special occasion. It was only when the Master of Grain swept in to remind Dirk of the date that you realized it was the penitent's offering day.

And immediately, you watched the change in Dirk. Like dirt shoveled onto the fire in his eyes.

By the pillars of bloody creation, you hate this.

"It usually doesn't take long," Dirk says, probably meaning to be reassuring. "Two hours at the most."

"I've been, you know." He lowers his head at your sharp reply, as if scolded, and you hate that even more. It's so hard! You're frustration has been turning to bitterness, like wine to vinegar, bile in your throat. But you never mean to take it out on Dirk. However, you can only visit Grandma to vent so many times.

"You can stay," he offers, an olive branch if you've ever heard one.

"What, and waste all this?" You wait for him to look askance at you and gesture to yourself, your long pine green robe, the charcoal you've put around your eyes just to gussy yourself up a bit. You've even tied your robe as neat and ornately as you could. It was already as fancy as something from the Prince's wardrobe, but you think you clean up fairly nicely.

In truth, the only thing you want less than attending this star-blasted event is leaving Dirk to face it alone.

Dirk smiles. It's not as warm as you're used to, but it's something. "You look even better than usual. Which, uh... is a feat."

It's a little awkward but you understand where his heart is. There's a certain type of tonguetied he gets with you that's always been enough to bolster the ego. Rising, you join him as he finishes dressing.

When all that's left is his collar, laying spread out and untouched, you both look at it. Resignation from Dirk, while you...

You swallow your complaints and pick it up, lifting it to his neck yourself.

"Lets get this over with," you mutter as you latch it against the red-pink line of his scar.

"If I told you to stay--"

"Not a chance, Your Majesty." You smack his ass and make for the door. "Let's go."

 

* * *

 

From the throne, the grand hall somehow manages to seem even larger and more intimidating.

By derth of ignoring every shocked look and sour expression, you remain at Dirk's side as he takes his seat on the Enduring Throne, stepping into place half a step back, keeping just in his periphery. From here, there is a fair stretch of empty hall before the long tables where the offerings will be placed by the handmaidens. The other handmaidens.

Alright, you're not much of a handmaiden anymore. You've heard some of the titles being rested on your shoulders and they scare you something awful with their audible capitalizations and uncomfortably reverent nature.

As the penitent representatives enter and fill the far end of the hall, the Speaker announces, "Today is a day in which we give thanks to the Eternal Prince of Skaia, Dirk Strider of the Enduring Throne. By his side, the Most Penitent Companion."

Your lips strain with the effort you put into keeping a flat expression. Is _that_  what they settled on? As weird as the title is, you know it could have been much worse.

"I didn't realize you rescinded your name," Dirk says very quietly to you.

Smiling, you press his shoulder with your arm, the most subtle acknowledgement you can think of.

The offering day is strange from here. You have to stand here and not react as Dirk is showered in impersonal, useless things. Many of them are so dull or ill-suited, you'd forget all about them if they weren't left in plain view on the table.

The third penitent is the representative of the Botany Guild, and you perk up as she announces her bundles of white sage and rosemary. Leaning against his arm, you inform Dirk quietly, "That's Jade, my cousin."

Dirk's head tilts just enough so his hair brushes against you. "She's been here before. Always brings very nice herbs that I don't know what to do with. I think the kitchens use them."

Jade lingers at the table, and you notice that everyone is watching your quiet conversing. Instantly, you feel like shoving your foot in your mouth. You _knew_  you needed to keep your trap shut and here you are flapping away.

Luckily, Dirk is much more comfortable at this end of the hall. "Thank you, Penitent Harley, for yet another generous gift. My immortality is not omniscience, and so my companion was informing me of the worth of your offering for purification and clarity."

Jade startles at being directly addressed, but grins widely, bowing. "He's always been a show-off, Your Majesty. Your grace is rivaled only by your patience."

Dirk _coughs_  into his fist as you gape at your _beloved, wonderful, loyal cousin_ , who just forfeited her Candlenights gift. The nerve!

The Speaker looks thrown by the presence of conversation in this ceremony, and watches Jade as she steps back into the procession.

Dirk taps his mouth once with his fist, extinguishing his smile before commanding, "Continue."

"At least I know you listen when I tell you what ingredients are for," you whisper at him.

He hushes you, and returns his attention to the ceremony.

After the comparatively lively offering from your cousin, the next gifts slide by without much to remember them by but the slowly kindling annoyance in your throat. A professed priceless heirloom portrait from the head of the Merchant's Guild. A very ornate crossbow from the Forge, as if it were some great mystery that Dirk favored a sword.

The overpriced jeweler from the shop on the market thoroughfaire puts another fucking crown on a velvet pillow on the table, and somehow emboldened by his repeated gift says, "Mayhaps I will see it adorn your regal figure someday."

You stare at your feet to cover the curl of your upper lip. One would assume an advertising placard would be cheaper than this staid old display, but what do you know?

It burns you in a way that lingers. You have seen _the_  crown, the heavy vestment of the Winter King. It sits in Dirk's bedroom on a carved stone head, like a constant reminder of his duty. Of what's coming in just a few months. To your memory, this bloke's peddled his latest overwrought headgarb for the past five years. It turns your stomach as Dirk kindly, hollowly thanks him yet again.

There's not time to stew in your sourness for long. A well-dressed troll in a cloak steps up, and the Speaker falters.

"Next is the..." His voice trails, and he consults his parchment for the first time since the ceremony began. "F-forgive me, next is..."

"An emissary from the Arcanist Guild, guided by a commission from the High Seer of the Divining Eye." She curtsies, lifting her gown with slow elegance. As she straightens, she pushes the hood off her head, and... you know her, of course, the head of the guild, how did you not recognize her.

Dirk leans forward, eyebrows knit together. "I bid you welcome and admit to some curiosity. What does the High Seer wish for me this time?"

You frown at his profile, lost.

The arcanist unpins the cloak, and sweeps it off her shoulders. "At her urging, we offer a cloak of silent passage. Wearing this, no one shall recognize your face. No one will startle at your presence. You will be a ripple on the mind, there and gone." She drapes it over her arm and lays the smoke-grey cloak on the table. "The High Seer sends her regards."

It is, after an hour of gift-giving, the first present laid on the table that feels meant for Dirk. In a way, you're unsettled by the implication that the Oracle Lalonde somehow _knows_... But your anxiousness fades as Dirk smiles. Smiles in a way that reaches his eyes.

"Thank you," he says, voice soft but carrying down the hall. There is a tension in his legs, as if he might spring up and pluck up the bundle from the table right now. "I'll treasure it."

The next few gifts pass by without you paying them much mind. The cloak is heavy on your mind. With it, you could easily spirit Dirk away for some outings. For his birthday, you steered him clear of the more crowded, lively parts of Skaia, even as his eyes wandered there with naked curiosity. It was a wretched thing, to deny him so much.

Now. Now, this changed things. Whatever the Seer was privy to, you could live with it. This here was a fine gift.

Casks of wine. (Dirk doesn't drink but to be sociable with you.) Bundles of sky blue silk. (Expensive, but almost hilariously unsuited to his complexion.) A bard sonnet about Dirk's bravery. (By the gods, they knew _nothing._  Nothing.)

Then, your grandmother.

You didn't see her come in, but she didn't need an artificer's relic to sneak around when she wanted. As the Speaker announces her, she strides up to the table, chin lifted, shoulders back.

You, suddenly aware of your posture, straighten up.

Somehow, the fact that your grandmother would be here to represent the guild escaped you, so deep you were in your wallowing about all this folderol and the unfairness of your ruined anniversary. Now, Dirk looks at you briefly, questioning. All you can offer him is wide eyes. You have no idea.

Uncharacteristically, she says nothing. Your guildmaster reaches into her open sleeve, where all alchemists worth their salt keeps a quick inventory of useful things, and she withdraws a single stalk of wheat.

She holds it aloft for the congregation to see, then places it on the table. "Good day to you, Your Majesty."

The crowd erupts into a din of overlapping, whispered conversation. As she returns, everyone steps far back from her, more than polite distance.

You gape at her as she goes. A piece of wheat. It's more symbol than anything, but... _really_?

Now, a few people are looking at _you_  in your place next to Dirk.

And of course, the dear, good Prince looks confused. "Jake. What does that mean? Grain? Is it special to--"

 _"I'll explain later,"_ you hiss back, feeling your ears turn red. Thank the stars and all their tracks that you can partially hide in your hood because your face is burning.

The tension in the grand hall roils and squirms like an eel, and you want nothing more than to duck behind the throne and out of sight. People staring at you with harmless confusion, you could weather that. Now, this. Real weight to their regard.

So, you miss most of the rest of the offerings, instead choosing to examine the hem of your sleeves, searching the craftsmanship desperately for any sign of imperfection you could pick at. They are perfect, as tidy and neat as the day Dirk gave them to you. The royal tailor does amazing work, damn her.

When the Speaker announces the end of the ceremony, Dirk is out of his seat, hand alighting to your shoulder. You follow without hesitation. Even if you don't look forward to what's to come, anything is better than staying here.

 

* * *

 

Back in the tower, you sink down on the plush ottoman, untying the loops of your robes. They're choking you.

"Next year," Dirk says gravely, "you stay here."

"And leave you to handle that bag of tomcats alone, of course, because I've that little mettle to my manner!" You shake your head and dig both of your hands in your hair. Breathe. In. Out.

"It's just a part of my position here," Dirk goes on, now much more gently. And having him soothing _you_  make you bristle something awful, flushed with shame. "I've done it plenty of times. Longer than you've been alive."

You drag your hands the rest of the way through your hair, trying to calm down. "That cannot be your excuse for everything."

"It's not an excuse. Just that I'm used to it. You aren't."

Before you can really kick up a row, the door opens, and part of the retinue whisks in, murmuring soft apologies. In their arms are gifts.

"Please, come in," you say sulkily.

" _Please_ , come in," Dirk repeats, in a much kinder voice.

God, he drives you mad sometimes. This blasted insular little set of rooms, if they did not house this man you were so... so desperately in love with, you'd run away in a fright.

Biting your tongue, you survey the collection now being spread around the room. Really, it's a struggle to find a place for everything. Dirk quietly directs a few of the lilac ladies, finding places for some things, sending others away to the storerooms and kitchens. The silks and crown, away to the Master of Coin. The bardic poetry respectfully set on the fireplace (where you will happily burn it later). The cloak, draped over a chair to be examined later no doubt.

On the tea table, a birdcage. Perfectly spherical and wrought from gleaming steel, handing from a curved arm. Inside, a little bird with gem-like plumage, green and blue and back again with every antsy shift of its little body.

"What is that," you ask.

"A gift from the penitent master of the Aviary, sir," the nearest handmaiden says.

Oh.

_No._

You stand and retreat to the bedroom. It must be some sight, given the way two handmaidens jump out of your path, but you could not give less of a damn. You'd rather have them spring out of your way than see you cry.

"Jake," Dirk calls, and you can feel him hot on your heels.

He slips in before you shut the door and _fine_. If he wants to be here for this, you will oblige him with the mess.

You push him back against the door the second it's shut, and feel his instinctive reaction, hands catching your wrists and holding on. "Jake."

Pressing your head against his breast, you heave a breath like a winded thing. "How do you stand it? Don't give me that horseshit about being used to it, how do you _stand this_ , Dirk, because I'm about to fly off some sort of handle here and need to know how the blazing hell you hang on!"

Dirk shushes you, and you're shouting, maybe, but who _cares_.

"A bird in a cage, is that somehow funny? Or another crown, as if your so inclined to throw one on for your Sunday stroll? A rhyming couplet about how nice it is of you to get yourself killed once a year, what sort of _gifts_  are these?!" Lifting your head, you shake him, as if that will help. It's a problem, the way Dirk often doesn't... react to things, and you cannot bare this being one of those times.

Dirk's thumbs rub your wrists in a way that's likely intended to be soothing. "You misunderstand."

"No," you roll on, incensed. "No, _they_ misunderstand, they don't _know_  you!"

His fingers tighten around you, insistent. "They aren't for me, Jake. They were never for _me._ "

Finally, you run out of things to say. Slapping you would be kinder.

And Dirk sighs, deep and true. "It was always for them. They have a lot of..." He grimaces. "I don't know. Guilt, maybe? And little outlet. So, my Master of Coin at the time, they suggested this. As a way to assuage that before it turns to something worse." He shrugs. "It was never for me."

You hold yourself still as your hands itch for oil and a match.

He strokes your face. "You have to remember. They don't know what you know. About it."

You point at the door, at the room on the other side. "A _caged bird_ , Dirk!"

He's unaffected, eyes tired, but expression fathomlessly calm. "It's not all bad. Sometimes, I get nice things." He smiles. "A handsome alchemist offering his hands."

The urge to burn everything to the ground is blown out of you. Dirk keeps soothing you, inexorable and patient.

You can barely stand it, and don't know how to handle the tempest of emotions swelling in you. Everything's filled you to the brim and it's too much.

Shoving him flat to the door again, you crash your mouth into him, earning a truly stunned noise from him. The Eternal Prince flaps his hands before grabbing hold of your shoulders; you open his mouth and push in.

Even if he doesn't understand, you don't think Dirk could deny you anything. He kisses back, bewildered but still somehow accepting your delirious manner of coping with your own tumultuous malarkey.

You bodily try to push him up the door, squeezing his hips. He gasps, says, "The retinue, Jake."

Oh, yes. Right. Them.

You fix Dirk with a fiery look, then sink to your knees. If you are to be his _Most Penitent Companion_  on this day of offering, you're going to show them how it's done.

Well. Not _show_  them. But you figure they'll hear plenty and that'll do.

 

* * *

 

When you're well and done, Dirk is a sprawled mess on the bed, laid on the covers. He's lazily pulled the quilt up to fold over him rather than properly climbing under the blankets.

Opening the door, you see no one on the other side. There is a meal set out, each plate covered to keep it warm. The sun's low, and you've completely lost track of time.

Inevitably, your eyes fall on the poor bird in it's pretty round cage.

With both hands, you lift the cage itself off its hook and carry it back inside the bedroom.

Dirk's eyes are a narrow gleam of tangerine as he watches you. "What're you doing," he mumbles.

"What I can," you answer bitterly, and open the window. It swings all the way outward, and gives you enough room to open the cage door and hold it out.

The little pretty bird peeps at you, hopping along its gleaming perch from side to side. When it's happy with the line up, it leaps out, and flutters out of your grasp without looking back.

Leaning back inside, you shut the window and underhand toss the empty cage into the basket of laundry by the armoire. "I feel better."

"I'm glad," Dirk says, and you can't quite tell if he's being facetious or not. You decide he's a good man and so probably not. "Can I ask you something?"

"Always, lovely."

"What was the point of your grandmother's gift?"

Immediately, heat rises in your face. "Oh. That."

Dirk, with great effort, rolls onto his back and pushes himself up. "Yeah. That."

There is plenty of space in his bed, so you move to sit next to him. Really, both of you need to eat something, but you doubt you could coax Dirk to do anything before explaining this ludicrous thing your gran's done.

Dirk puts a pillow behind your back as you wiggle over to him. "It's complicated."

"I'm good with complicated."

You rather think he isn't, but don't _actually_ feel like arguing anymore. That muscle's gone sore from overwork. "Right then. So."

Dirk stares up at you, resting his cheek on your shoulder. He's got doe eyes. Hard to resist, damn him.

Putting your arm around him, you stroke his hair out of warm, sweet habit. "The Alchemy Guild and House Harley tend to be treated like they're the same thing, but really they aren't. We're happy to teach any promising soul our craft, but there's... certain tricks of the trade that are as closely guarded as you can imagine. Keep 'em under lock and key. Metaphorically, anyway-- we don't have them written down, it's too precious. So it's oral tradition, right?"

"Right," Dirk says slowly.

He doesn't get it. You kiss his forehead. "What's the point of alchemy, Your Majesty?"

"To... create... something from another thing?"

"Broadly. But what's the goal?"

All you get is a blank look. Really you'd prefer he put it together himself, but you did have some hand in reducing him to this long-limbed, lethargic state. You can't imagine he's running at full speed. "Gold, Dirk. Alchemy's greatest pursuit is the synthesis of gold from lesser elements."

"I thought that was just a story."

You can't help grinning. "Well, let's say it is! How does the story go? There's lots of versions of it, particularly what we turn into gold. Lead's one, but a lump of that would make a lousy gift. Wheat, on the other hand..."

Dirk's lips part around a long exhale. "Oh."

You kiss him on top of his head. "Now, chickadee, if the rumors were true and House Harley knew the secret of making gold and the head of the household gave you a single stalk of wheat, what do you suppose that'd be all about?"

"Oh," Dirk says again. Watching realization awaken in him is a treat.

He lifts his head to look at you. "So, are... you going to teach me to make gold? Is that what..."

You wink. "You think I can just _make_  gold? That'd be terribly impressive, wouldn't it?" Giving him another smacking kiss, you roll out of bed. "Anyway, come on. Dinner's getting cold."

"I'm supposed to eat when your grandmother offered me the biggest secret of alchemy? Jake." He's whining now, and you leave him, laughing and trusting him to follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my wrist hurts from writing all this in like three hours jfc. i'll fix typos tomorrow.
> 
> morning revision to clarify the wheat thing.


	17. beeswax

It's snowing for Candlenights, as you move through the city under the cover of silent passage, a charm curled around your body like the embrace of some great feathery thing. The bronze stitching running along the hem of your cloak muffles everything, your steps, the plume of your breath, your very visage as you walk the market street. The sun is still high in the sky, and your citizens hustle around, carrying bundles of wrapped gifts, buying emergency candles, and picking up food for the night. Preparations have to finish before sundown, and Skaia is most industrious in it's last rush before the darkness falls.

Around your neck, the cloak is clasped in a gold pin, inscribed with the delicate points of a forget-me-not. Jake put it on you himself, so as you walk through the town, he's able to look back at you with recognition in his eyes.

Which he does often, a permanent warm curve to his lips.

"Not too busy for you?" he asks, solicitous and kind.

It's a little overwhelming. You were determined to walk through the main square of Skaia, just to see... what was here. What you were doing for this kingdom. As autumn fully descends around you, leaves falling and turning to mulch and then nothing but rich earth, and then this lively snow, you spend a lot of time thinking about this place in a way you haven't in years.

"I'm fine," you say, watching as a father holds a hand over his child's eyes while he picks out a gift from a stall, the way she wiggles and tries to peak around his palm.

There are people brushing by you. The first few times, you nearly stumble, more from the shock than the contact. Now, you just get to be part of the crowd. No one pays you a second glance. It's nice.

"I've got what I needed. Did you want to..." Jake hitches a thumb over his shoulder, in the vague direction of the guildhouse. It's your destination for the day. You'll be spending Candlenights there.

For the moment, you keep looking around, turning in place. It's cold out. It might be time to turn in. A few passerbys give you a sour look as you stand there, slowly spinning on your heel to take it all in.

"Can I have a cider," you ask, your gaze tracking on one of the stalls, an elderly man armed with a heated pot and a ladle, the steam coming from the pot immense.

Jake nudges you with his elbow. "You don't like cider."

His memory and attention is sometimes as vexing as it is impressive. As you try to think of an excuse, he waves you off. "How about I find you something else and you can lurk a little more? But then we're heading in. My toes are liable to freeze right off if we loiter 'round much longer."

That's agreeable enough, and even better than your idea. You're happy to have Jake treat you to something. Even if it's just a little more time.

You sit on the edge of a now-frozen fountain and quietly take everything in. The weight of what your life's wrought has never been heavier.

 

* * *

 

The Candlenights traditions are a product of your time more than today. When people fought to survive every winter as it stretched on and on, when morale was rock bottom, it was a simple ceremony everyone took shelter in. Back when everyone had so little, they had to celebrate what they did.

You remember making your candle with your own hands, using the blunt of a knife to press shapes into cooling wax so everyone in the house would know it was yours. Your guardian using his kit to paint the sides of his candle in vivid reds and oranges.

This year is the first you've had a candle in a long time. Jake bullied you into it a week ago, supplying an array of oils and a colorful flowers and little metal shapes to interperse through the mould. His had pine needles worked into the blue wax, and sandalwood scent. Yours wound up an almost lurid orange, and citrusy with green beads embed into the sides. His was neater, made with more practice. Yours was more along the lines of a child's first Candlenights.

All of them, along with Grandma English's own stout cherry brown candle, burn above the stove, against the domed glass of the guildhouse. Beyond the window, you can see the streetlights have been put out, and all of the buildings around you are glowing with their own candlelights.

"That's barely half a candle, Gran," Jake complains as you stand at the window, looking around. "And you didn't put bloody valerian in there, did you?"

"Early to rest, early to rise," she tells him sternly. "When you get older, you'll grow out of your night owl habits, boy. You spend less in lamp oil besides."

Supper is stewed lamb meat with rosemary and tomato and cream and some heavy lager that adds a richness to the medley, wheaty and delicious. It's nothing so grand as the feast you might have if you stayed in the castle and bothered the kitchen staff, but it's good. _Much_ spicier than what you're used to, definitely, and Jake's grandmother gets more than a few hearty laughs at your expense as you down glasses of wine that do _little_  to abate the heat.

Still. It's good, and warming as you stare out with a bowl and spoon in your hands. Nothing like your last Candlenights.

You frown down at your bowl, trying to remember. You've been trying so much harder lately to hold onto things, but sudden resolve doesn't actually make the task any easier. What did you do back then? Simpler candles. Bigger lives, but you can't remember just _how_.

The conversation behind you, between guildmaster and heir, continues outside your attention for a while as you try to polish up some recollections. When there's a lull, you barely notice; Jake's hands on your hips jostle you loose. "Hello there," he whispers to you. "Where're you off to?"

Shaking your head, you sigh. "Nowhere. Sorry, did I miss something?"

"Nothing important. I think your stew's going cold. You want more?"

You've had seconds already, eating more for the novelty of the flavor than actual hunger. Vaguely, you know you apparently don't eat enough, and it's a matter of concern for Jake. Still, your habits are hard to break and you're not used to needing the fuel. It's been a long, sedentary life.

Now, your stew has lost its appeal in the wake of what traditionally comes after: gifts. That's much more exciting.

With your bowl put up, you sit at the table again. It's been cleared for the space, and a few wrapped packages sit out in a tidy row.

You count them, and feel a tremor of real fright in your spine. There's five parcels, an uneven number. You look with trepidation at your hostess, the sly smirk on her face.

"I can see you chasing your tail there, Your Majesty. Rest assured, I didn't get you anything extravagant, you're fine," she tells you. Always, her voice comes with a slight edge to it, and you are never certain how serious she is.

"I'm sorry, I didn't think to--" you start.

"Your gift to me," she goes on sternly, "is to not apologize for it and let us get to the gifts already. My bed's callin' me."

Jake hides his smile behind his hand, and you do your best to calm down, chided.

Jake's gift to his grandmother is large and heavy as he pushes it out of the line and across the table to her. With her nails, she cuts the top of the thin colorful parcel paper before ripping it in half with a musical tear. It all unfolds like a tattered flower, and reveals a short cauldron with stubby legs. Wrapped around the brim is a shiny band, inscribed with runes you don't understand.

She lifts her silvery eyebrow at him, and he narrows his eyes. "So you can throw out the old one with the handle that keeps coming off."

Clucking her tongue, she shakes her head. "It's still got goodness left in it. And sleep draughts don't taste right comin' out of anything else."

"This one has a reinforced handle! And the little feet, and the charm will keep it from bubbling over!"

She pats it with one hand. "Very nice work. Still."

"You are more stubborn than the stars themselves," Jake groans.

Any more complaints are cut off when the next parcel gets pushed at you, much to your surprise. Grandma English gives you an expectant look, as if daring you to protest the gift.

You don't dare. Your gift is a sealed box. Pulling the ribbow out of its bow, you tug it away and fit your nails into the edge of the lid, prying it open. It swings on its hinge perfectly, a cord inside pulling taut to hold the it open without falling back.

Half of the contents are neat rows of linen. Picking one up, you unfold it and find it sewn into the shape of a long, thin pouch. The other half are glass jars, each the size of your fist with corked lids. You pull one loose to see the contents are browned leaves, mixed with cornflower blue petals and dried orange peel. In another, familiar silvery green leaves. In another, more dark leaves with rose petals scattered through.

Reaching past you, she picks up the corner jar to show you. "For when you're feeling up for something a little more spirited than tea." She shows you the contents, densely packed brown powder with chunks of sugar. Cocoa.

"Thank you," you tell her, setting everything neatly back in place.

"You're always so damned grave. If anyone needs hot cocoa, it's you, Prince." She pats your hand briskly. "Don't let Jake get at it."

"I wouldn't dare, thanks much!" Jake whines, pouting at her. The expression is shucked off like an unwanted mask as he looks at you. "Me next, then, right?"

Logically, yes. You put your hand on the parcel for Jake, and almost hesitate. It's like last year all over again, your eyes drawn to his present for you and wondering how you fared. It's hard to know his mind, but... last year worked out, you think.

Jake holds out his hands, and you push the gift into his reach. He takes it almost gently, resting a hand on top for a beat. Then he's pulling the wrapping apart with as gusto as his elder, shredding it and casting it down on the floor.

"Don't leave it there for Halley to eat and get sick from," Grandma English scolds.

Pausing, Jake ducks down, under the table, and comes back with a fistfull of paper. Dropping it safely out of the dog's reach, he returns to the matter of his gift, pulling it closer and examining it.

You have the urge to explain. Instead, you fold your arms and lean forward, holding your tongue.

Jake's lips part as he drags his thumb over the edge of the cover, and opens the thick book propped up before him. It's old enough that the binding creaks as it opens, and he thumbs through some pages. "Gran."

As she stands and circles around to Jake's side to look, you have the almost crushing urge to vanish. Your cloak is hanging up by the door. You could pull it on, see if it works in a small setting like this.

She leans against Jake's shoulder and boldly reaches out to turn the pages herself. "Now, where in this empty night did you find this?" she asks.

Hunching down, you look at the grain of the table, staring at the whorls and dark lines in the wood. "The royal library. They won't miss it."

It's the oldest tome on pharmalchemy you could find, and you are fairly versed in the inventory of the library. It's something of a doorstopper, encyclopedic in nature with long treatises on various recipes and preparations.

The sound of the two of them leafing through it is suffocating, really, broken only by a few murmured remarks. Eventually, Grandma English straightens and slaps her hand against Jake's arm.

"Oh! Sorry, I was-- there's a lot of things in here, I was just..." He clears his throat and, with visible effort lets the pages slip through his fingers. Halfway through, he stops and focuses at a particular spot. Putting the book on the table, he smoothes out an illustration of some herbs. The page is starkly contrasting the rest of the book, the paper pale and unaged in comparison to the text on the other side.

You shrug. "I... added some pictures?"

Jake's smile splits into a broad grin. "Dirk, you... what's a bloke to say?"

Returning to her seat, his grandmother offers, "Something grateful, mayhaps."

"I mean, obviously _thank you_ , yes." He shuts the book, hand laid on the cover.

"Welcome," you mutter, looking away, somehow relieved and embarassed all at once.

"It's always a gambit, trying to compete with the gift-giving prowess of His Majesty," Jake jibes lightly, smiling across the table at you.

"Speaking of," his grandmother says, nodding to one of the remaining presents. "Hop to it."

"Oh! Erm." Biting his lip, Jake touches one of the parcels, looking at you, then at her with genuine hesitance. "Actually... It'd be an awful break from how things go, but I was thinking I could wait on this one."

"Jake, you think I've not seen my fair share of courting gifts? Where'd you come from, child?"

"That doesn't mean I want to-- to air it all out with you right there!" His voice pitches up, from sheepish to scandalized in a coin flip.

"I can wait," you offer up.

"Making royalty wait is surely some crime," she says.

"Will you bestow your damned gifts and leave me alone already?"

She lets out a bark of laughter. "The mouth you've gotten. Don't remember you having that much gumption before you donned the lilac." She pushes one package to him. "Dig in, then, and you two turtledoves can scurry off."

"Don't make it sound so lascivious," Jake mumbles, but pulls in his gift for unwrapping.

Inside, there's another book. It's not a weighty tome like yours, nor as old; the title proclaims it a collection of playscripts, much like the ones Jake uses for bedtime reading. "Finally, a few I don't already know," he murmurs as he reads the table of contents."

"Keep on," she says.

At that prompt, Jake sorts through more of the wrapping, and his hands close around the handle of a knife in a leather sheaf. Lips parting, he pulls the blade loose. It shines bright, even in the dim candlelight, freshly forged and sharpened. "Gran! You're not meant to give two gifts!"

"I do as I like," she says. "'Sides, they both fit in one bit of wrapping, that counts." Standing, she leans over Jake. Her worn, dark hands close around his face, cupping both his cheeks and bodily pulling him in to kiss his forehead. "One's for my grandson, and one's for my apprentice."

"Gran," Jake says, more warmly this time. Taking her hand, he kisses it, and leans into her grasp for a moment, eyes shut. "Happy Candlenights."

"Same to you and your young man."

"My young man," Jake echoes with mirth, grinning at you as he accepts another kiss.

Releasing him, Grandma English straightens, and picks up her candle by its curved handle. It's burned down, the wick standing in a pool of hot wax near the bottom. "Whatever you get up to, keep it down. I need my beauty rest."

"Good _night_ , Gran," Jake says, cheeks darkening, ducking his head as she nearly cuffs him as she passes.

Soon, you're alone with Jake. Your own candles still stand defiantly against the night. Beyond, Skaia grows darker as other lights go out.

Yours are not among their number. Not yet. Jake lifts his, and tucks the last gift under his arm. "Come on."

It doesn't even cross your mind to question or hesitate. You'd likely follow Jake English anywhere he asked, but especially to his bed.

 

* * *

 

 

Jake's obviously rather nervous about your gift.

"I'm no good at... this," he expounds as you open the box he hands you when you're finally alone in his room. In here, it's quiet and dark in a way that's only barely abated by both of your candles burning on the bedside. You sit on the side of the bed, because the only other place to sit is at his desk, and to your surprise, Jake kneels by you, his hands curled over your knees.

The contents of the box are familiar. A bottle and a flask, remarkably similar to the last year.

Jake presses his face against your legs and groans. "Here I was, trying to be sort of smart about it, while you go and give me a priceless old relic. It's enough to drive a man mad, trying to please you like you deserve, d'you know?"

"You please me fine," you reassure him, not certain where he's really going here.

"I'm just..." He sighs against your skin. "I would draft up any tonic or tincture or concotion you'd ever need. And I'm not much good at anything... beyond that."

You rest the flask back in the box and take the opportunity to drag your fingers through his hair. It's springy and thick under your touch, bouncing back into it's odd flip after every stroke. Jake's grip on your knees tightens.

"Jake." You stroke his hair back from his face. "You've already... already given me more than anyone else I've ever met. Ever since you showed up and offered me your hands." Trying to be firm but gentle, you pull his head up until he'll look at you again. "It's winter. And this is the first time I'm not afraid of spring."

Rather than reassuring Jake, you watch his face crumble. He buries his face in your lap again, shoulders going tense. His breath is ragged, and you have no idea what to do here. All you can do is continue to touch him soothingly as he lets out hitched noises.

This... is not the reaction you expected.

By the time he's done, your candles have burned down significantly. Lifting his head, he wipes his face on his sleeve, sighing deeply. "What a Candlenights treat, a grown man having a cry on you. I'm sorry, lovely."

"It's alright. Just surprised."

Bracing on your legs, Jake gets to his feet, sniffling loudly. "Been thinking about it a lot. Spring coming along. It's absolutely the strangest thing in life, you know. Before, I looked forward to it, much like everyone in this damned kingdom. Now..."

Oh. You clench your hands. "Did you want..."

"Whatever atrocious thing you're going to offer right now, put a sock in it." He curls one hand around your neck, thumb tracing the scarred line. "I'll be there. I'll see to you as long as you'll have me."

That is what you'd hoped. Somehow, things have grown so complicated. Your life cycling through various states of pain and dread has broken. What else could you possibly want from him?

"Have I really blubbered through that much of the night?" Jake says, mystified as he looks at the remaining candle. "Then there's not much time. C'mon, up and strip."

Following Jake's commands is much more familiar territory. You get up and start taking your clothes off. Beside you, Jake empties the box of the flask and the bottle, and then pulls the bedding out as well. It unfolds in his hands as he shakes it, a sheet of midnight blue silk he spreads over top his bed like an overturned bottle of ink.

"I payed so much patronage to the artificers this year," he mutters, smoothing the cover out with his hands.

"What's it do?"

"Lay down and find out," Jake says, smiling.

It's somewhat awkward to lay out nude like this, but Jake's certainly seen you in more intimate circumstances. Fair or not, he's had your blood on his hands, and it's a barrier broken down that you can't really get back. Skin's nothing in comparison. You climb onto the bed and let him guide you down onto your back. As you settle against the cover, it comes to arcane life, and bleeds heat into your body wherever it touches. Your head falls back, letting out a long breath.

"Nice?" Jake asks. You hum in reply. "Good. If you so much as lift a finger, I'm going to be very cross with you."

He starts with your ankles, the hard knot of bone and the line of muscle up to your knee, taking hold of you with casual confidence and moulding you back into shape. Now you see what he means, the pinpoint origin of his upset that cut into him so deep. It's one hot bath away from being the same treatment as last Candlenights.

So, he thought you'd be... disappointed?

There was a time when no one touched you. Even when you were weak and bleeding, and unable to even cry for help, you were left alone for the sake of... something. Ceremony or privacy or something. That's not so much the case now, as you share your bed with Jake and walk through Skaia under silent passage. But it's still new, still a yawning expanse to fill.

A gift of hands is never a disappointment.

This was how Jake first came to you, with his oils and his casual strength. It's more rare for him to do this lately; as he becomes a fixture in your life and in the castle, the times when he would tend to you like a penitent were fewer and farther between. Now, you let your head loll against the pillow, watching the flicker of candlelight as Jake unpins every piece of you with his hands. There's no resistance in your body, even your propriety eroded away and smoothed over by oiled palms.

His legs fit between yours as he drags his fingers along the lines of your ribs. You can hear in your head, the protestations that you need to eat more, even if he doesn't say it aloud. Smiling, you sigh and relax, inhaling the mixed scents of the melting candles, the undercurrent of honey inherent to the beeswax, and the rosy floral oil being worked further up your body.

He wouldn't be upset if you dozed off, would he? It's hard, being so focused on the spreading touch but also on the verge of sleep. He's warm over you and the charmed cover is warm under you. It's been a long day. You're tired in the best way, from having done things and seen people and experienced a kind holiday with people who care about you. Exhausting, but good.

"You're so easy sometimes," Jake whispers, thumb tracing your clavicle.

You hum again, a twitch in your fingers as close to a reply you can manage.

It's a feat that you're still awake when Jake finishes. He works one of your arms, from shoulder to fingertip, and rests your hand lightly on your chest before doing the same with your other arm. When he's done, he sits back, holding both your wrists with one hand. As if you're going to try to move at this point.

"How's that for timing," he mutters. You can still see light through your eyelids, so you assume the candles are on their final span of wick. Opening your eyes to check is impossible. "About time to turn in."

In the past, he's at least taken a towel to you, cleaning up the excess oil that hasn't soaked into your skin. Tonight, he doesn't seem bothered, and lays beside you.

Put in a tremendous effort, you roll onto your side, stretching your arm across his chest in a well-loved sprawl. His hand cups the back of your head, thumb stroking your hair.

His nose tucks into your hair, mouth against your temple. "You're best like this," he tells you softly, like a secret. "Out of that damned tower."

You know. He's not been shy about how much he prefers these days, when you're brave enough to venture out with him. Inhaling a deep, languorous breath, you murmur, "Maybe."

Jake's own breathing stutters. "Maybe what?"

Even stringing a sentence together is difficult. You think one of the candles has winked out; there's a distinctive scent of a smoking wick pushing through the rest. "Maybe we can do it more next year," you mumble. "Let them get used to me... going out. Don't want to scare anyone but... I like this too."

His fingers tense on you, air punching out of him. "Dirk."

Now you know if must be dark. Even the pale flicker of light has faded beyond your eyelids. Both your candles are out. Tradition dictates you should both sleep now. It's not difficult, tucked against Jake's side, worn out and sated in a bone-deep way.

But Jake's chest moves under your arm, and it's a restless pattern. Against your palm, his heartrate refuses to slow.

"Dirk."

"Mhm?"

He breathes in deeply. "I want to ask you something."

"Mhm."

"What happens? When you go out to the woods. How do you come back."

It's been ages since someone asked you that. Before you were the Eternal Prince, the King of All Winters. At first, the town elders _demanded_  to know, needing to replicate it, to do it again. But when it worked again and again, they stopped asking.

Then, it was never about how. Just the fear it would ever stop. Then, later, the reassurance this would work.

You have to think about it. You're very sleepy, would probably slip away if Jake's pulse racing was not distracting you. More than anything, you want him to calm down and sleep too. Rubbing your thumb to and fro soothingly, you lick your lips. "How?"

"How. How does it work. Is there a... trick?"

He doesn't sound happy to be asking at all. You shrug. "Trick. I mean, sort of. It calls it my trickery."

"It? What?"

"The Horror." You smile, huffing out a laugh. "It doesn't like me much. Doesn't like being outwitted."

His lungs expand like bellows around a single, insistance. "How?"

He wants specifics, maybe. You shrug. "I... Once upon a time, I thought I was being clever." His hand against your side twitches.

Skaians don't talk about this. The subject is off limits, even between families and spouses, as far as you know. But... there's nothing usual about your situation, is there?

"When I was sixteen," you say, "I went to visit the High Seer. She told me when I died, it'd be of a broken heart."

"Dirk--" he starts, like he's changed his mind.

But you've already gotten past that part. The rest is simple. "One year, the Winter King ran off. Someone else had to do it. People were freezing to death. I volunteered, mostly to see what would happen. The Seer's never been wrong, after all."

He doesn't say anything. You didn't really expect him to. But his heart's still thumping away like a timpani. All you want is for him to rest. And to let you rest, honestly.

You tuck your face against the shelter of him a little more. "I'm not afraid this time. Alright?" The breath in his chest hitches. "I've done this a hundred times. Dread's been a constant companion. Now, you are."

He bundles you closer to him, his embrace crushing. "You still deserve more than this. Dirk, do you know that?"

"It'll be fine."

Jake shakes his head.

His hold is unrelenting until you pull against it. Then, he lets go, and lets you rise up and look at him. His eyes are red behind his spectacles. You take them off, folding the arms and setting them on the bedside table.

When you turn back, his eyes are closed. You settle back in, stroking his hair.

Taking your hand, he kisses your knuckles and seems about to say something more. It passes, and he sighs out a ragged breath. "Not leaving you."

You kiss him. "I know. Thank you."

To your surprise, he's asleep before you are, as if finally run out of energy. Grateful, you lie down, and give in to the gentle pull of darkness and safety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watching the discord chat try to figure out how the chips are gonna fall has been a delight lemme tell you


	18. gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen.
> 
> i need you to trust me.

This time, you're not caught off guard. This time, when the final true day of winter comes, Dirk tells you.

He sits in his wingbacked chair while you settle on the ottoman. You have his feet in your lap, your fingers curled around his ankles as you pull his socks off and stroke the oddly smooth, thin skin there, banishing the cold with your touch alone. Looking up at him, his hair is curling from his bath, eyes half-lidded from the lethargy of hot water. He's lovely, the throw blanket on his lap spread over yours as well. Between the two of you, the last day of winter is warm.

"It'll be different," Dirk says, eyes locked to yours entreatingly. "This coming year will be as different as this year was to the last one."

"I want to go out more. I want to lay my head in new places for more than special occasion. And we can go, but I have to first let them become used to the idea," he explains. "I can't just leave yet, but an extended trip in the summer, when winter is just a phantom. Ease them into it."

"I have to come back here to do this," he reminds you. "That will never change. No one else can have this burden. But the rest is yours."

"This is the first time I've faced the sacrifice without fear," he tells you.

When you're too quiet, he leans in, bending close and taking your wrists between the circle of his fingers. "Jake. If you... You can go. If it's too much."

It jolts you into motion, putting your arms around his neck and holding him, pressing your foreheads together. "I'm going to take care of you," you swear. "Everything'll be alright."

When he shuts his eyes and sighs, his lashes brush against you softly. You want this closeness forever. And, selfishly, you don't want to share him with anyone. More than anything, you want to work the fishhooks out of his flesh, press bandages and healing ointments to every wound, and keep him. You want to give Dirk a better life.

No. To have a better life with Dirk.

 

* * *

 

The night before your sacrifice, you sleep deeply, leaving a half-finished cup of chamomile tea on the nightstand as you sink into your bed, piled up with thick blankets against the winter, and with Jake against your back.

But in the morning.

In the morning, you stir, and instinctively roll onto your back and spread out your arm to catch Jake. Nudge him awake so you can ask what he wants for breakfast, the usual routine. Even if today is destined to be something of an ordeal, you always start it the same way. You always start it as though it were any other day.

But Jake isn't next to you. The place beside you is still warm, but there's no familiar body sprawling over your bed. It's a vanishingly rare thing, for Jake to be awake before you, apparently some remnant of his youth and the many nights he stayed up late to study or sneak out to the Galleria for a play.

You curl your fingers in the empty space and sigh. This is a break in routine you almost resent. Spending the early hours in bed before you have to leave to the woods is a rare treat you were looking forward to.

Resigned to get up, you roll over and put your feet on the floor.

Only then do you realize Jake is still in the bedroom. He's standing not far from you, his back turned as he afixes your sword to his belt.

When it's secure, he reaches out for the Winter King's Crown. _Your_  Crown.

The rush of panic in you is as sudden and painful as a whipcrack. "What the hell are you doing?"

Jake startles, nearly drops the Crown before fumbling it back on the stone brow of its seat. As he spins, rich fabric fans out around him, the cloak of silent passage following his movement. "Dirk," he breathes, and his eyes are so wide, you can see the glassy whites around the crisp green.

"What in the almighty fuck are you _doing_ ," you snap, and take a step forward. You need to... take the sword, but also grab the Crown, and your hands lift as you try to decide what to go for first.

To your absolute shock, _Jake_  goes for _you._  There's a small stone tablet in his fingers that snaps with a hard, fast click, and from the break a swirl of pale green smoke sighs out. It settles in his palm as he darts forward and throws it in your face.

It's a effervescent powder, grainy and smelling sharply of undiluted valerian. You have the sense to hold your breath, but it still gets on your skin and in your hair, and you stagger at the tremendous rush of exhaustion that crashes like a wave. "What--" you cough, trying to keep it out of your mouth as the-- charm, the hex, whatever it is wars with the heart clenching panic that's taking hold of you. The dissonance makes you sick, and you stagger, flinging a hand back.

Jake catches you under one arm and cups your skull with care as he lowers you down. "Sorry, sorry, I'm sorry, that wasn't nice at all, but you'll be fine. It'll all be fine, shush. Just take a deep breath for me, lovely."

You fucking refuse, with a steel defiance that nonetheless wavers from the force of the spell. Even as you try to dig your hands into his cloak, your grip's failing, and Jake rests you down on the ground.

The last thing you know, Jake's apologizing over and over like a litany, and then darkness spreads over you and you know nothing for a while.

 

* * *

 

You'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, but that doesn't mean you weren't prepared for it. It's a damned truth that Dirk's always been an early riser, and you've always been prone to late nights and late mornings when you could get away with it. So, you'd had a quick nap charm ready in the sleeve of your green robes since you first slid out of bed and tucked it into your palm.

Now, you wave the lingering smoke out of the air, blowing it away with pursed lips, before settling your Prince on his back.

You have little time, and yet you hesitate here, letting your fingers traces the soft furrow of his brow; as if his consternation continues to haunt his slumber. You smooth it with your thumb, and tuck his hair behind his ears.

If you squint, you could imagine him just sleeping. For once slow to stir in the morning. No worries hanging over him.

And really, that's what you're doing this for.

Resisting the urge to find a blanket to cover him with, you leave him there, the only sound in the room now your own sharp breathing. The gravity of your actions is growing, like a boulder rolling down a hill; slow to start, but picking up a bone-shattering speed.

You hurry to the Crown and pick it up, resting it down on your head.

It's even heavier than it looks, making your neck twinge.

For almost your entire life, you've been looking for the key. Like everyone in Skaia, you've had a prophecy looming like a stormcloud, dimming the light around you.

And more specifically, you've spent the last year and a half with a phantom weight in your grasp. Every day, your hand's shut around the sensation of an arrow, sometimes so vivid and real that you've looked down as if expecting to see it there in in your palm.

But it never manifests. Even now, you close your fingers tightly and _feel_  it, but there's nothing. A metaphor, but not a metaphor. Metaphysical.

You believed for the longest time it was destined for the rope around Dirk's neck. That would be easy. You _wanted_  to be the one to sever that stars-blighted noose.

Still. Nothing, but the waiting.

Today, you stand in front of Dirk's vanity mirror and carefully pull the hood of your cloak up to rest over the Crown. It's an awkward effect, the way the fabric catches and pulls against the metal spires. But you manage to drape it correctly, and faintly feel the shroud of magic settle over you.

You're ready to go.

You hesitate again, and look back at the man lying bonelessly against the floor. It's the heart of winter, and you can see so much of his pale, delicate skin peaking out from under his sleep clothes.

Time is short, but you can't stop yourself from taking the royal cloak off from the neck of the bust and spreading it over him. _Something_  against the chill.

And then, you hurry out of the room, and out of the tower.

Today is the last day of winter. And like every year, the Winter King walks the streets alone.

You've grown up with this. Never seen it for yourself, actually, so fleeting is the passage of the crowned Prince. In the distant past, you know there was more ceremony to the event, but know without asking that Dirk must've preferred it this way. Even the hour seems planned; the overnight cold has yet to release its hold of the streets, and only the most determined shopkeeps are out opening up, only a few yawning adolescents shuffling off to the guilds for their apprenticeships.

It's early enough that it feels like twilight, the sun still rising and not high enough to color the overcast sky yet.

No one so much as glances at you as you walk. Which was the point of the cloak, honestly. If anyone in the castle had seen you, had recognized what you were doing, it would have gone badly. And you know in your heart Dirk would never give you another chance to do this.

But as you pass more early birds, the sourness that's been living in your chest since.... since the Spring's Eve address, it curdles like bad milk and the nausea rises.

Life in Skaia has been a life of averted eyes, and you are so bloody tired of it.

When the gates are in sight, the outer wall closing in, you hold the Crown steady with one hand and pull the hood off with the other. Immediately, the charm fades, and eyes that would pass you by now catch and hold. People stop mid-step, mouths dropping open, gasps abound, and the guards at the gate straighten as your face resolves into something real. Someone other than the Prince.

If anyone in Skaia had a spine, they might stop you. But you know better, the bitterness of wisdom on your tongue.

Putting a hand on the hilt of Dirk's sword, you don't break stride as you approach the gate. "Open the way, or I'll open it for you."

They let you through. Of course they do. Skaians are not known to interfere.

 

* * *

 

Opening your eyes again for the second time is indescribably more difficult.

There is something soft as gossamer but stubborn as spiderweb clinging against your eyelids. It's voice is sweet and coaxing, urging you to relax and sleep again even as you fight to rouse yourself.

It's not so sweet to drown out the fear rattling around your chest. When you come awake, it's all at once, your body jerking upright so fast, your head swims in the drowsy sea of _whatever the fuck_  Jake hit you with.

Jake.

You shake yourself to dislodge the charm on you, gritting teeth against the seasick feeling that remains as its hold breaks. As you struggle to your feet, you see the bare, unadorned bust.

The Crown is gone. Your sword is missing. The cloak is... on the floor, where it slid off you like silk.

These things are yours. They have been yours since time immemorial. You feel it like a theft, that Jake's _stolen_  this from you as if it were his right.

The quick snap of betrayal doesn't last long. You drag your feathered, ornate cloak around yourself, clutching it tight around your form. You don't even have time to tie up your boots and instead shove your feet into the thinner house shoes you've taken to wearing around your quarters. They're not good enough for winter, but there's no _time_.

Jake's already gone. You run after him and pray you aren't too late.

 

* * *

 

This time of year, no one goes out into the woods.

And after walking for a few minutes, you know why.

In the depths of winter, shadows are long and dark, smudges around your life that will not relent even in the face of a bright oil lamp or magelight. If anything, more light only seems to cast a more feral darkness around, like a cat backed into a corner and ready to defend itself.

That daily reality is nothing compared to the woods outside Skaia.

Before long, the canopy of trees close above you like spidery fingers interlacing. Even the sliver of distant grey sky is clawed out of your sight, and the darkness you step into is so absolute, it becomes difficult to even continue without tripping.

But there is not undergrowth. There are no fallen branches in your path, no uneven earth. You step out of Skaia and start walking, and find yourself on a path without trying.

Dirk does this every year. Is this path worn by his own boots?

Your fists clench and you bow your head, ignoring the prey instinct to look around at your surroundings for danger, and you just  _walk._

So it continues for a long time, the dark absolute, and almost.... alive, shifting as it closes around you.

At the end of your path, your toe knocks against carved stone, bringing you to an abrupt halt. Lifting your gaze, you follow the shape of it, the only feature in this expanse of pitch, not even a single _tree_  left in sight. Just this flat rock, set with faint grooves that terminate as a plateau rising before them. As you step closer and lean in to examine this shape, you see something staining the plateau. Something dark like rust.

Behind you. Ahead of you. All around you. Inside your _head._   **"AT LAST. NEW BLOOD TO SPILL FOR FERTILE GROUNDS AND IGNITE THE SUN. WELCOME, BOY."**

There is nothing around you when you look. Your breath shakes slightly as it leaves you. "Who are you?"

**"THE HORROR. THE END OF YOUR LIFE, OR THE END OF ALL LIVES."**

"Right, kind of a mouthful," you exhale. Still you want to peer into the pitch to pick out something, even if you know... that's probably besides the point. You cross your arms, letting your cloak fall around your. It's cold out here, viciously so. "So what... _are_  you, if I may ask? Cloud of living darkness is impressive, but I don't think that's quite the thing. Glamour, or something?"

Somehow, it closes in around you, until you can't even see the far edge of the altar. **"THE UNDYING TERROR THAT HAUNTS THE DREAMS OF EVERY SKAIAN. WE HAVE ALWAYS BEEN HERE. WE ARE HUMANITY'S SHADOW."**

You frown. "Well, no. That's not really how it works. If you were _that_ , you wouldn't be a curse on Skaia alone. There's loads of theories and I was just wondering which skewed closest to the solemn truth." Moving your feet, you rub your legs together. It's _freezing_. "I always imagined you were some forest spirit with an appetite for scarin' the locals that got glut and grew up mean."

**"YOUR RAMBLING IS CHILDISH. THE BABBLING OF A SMALL, PATHETIC THING FACING ITS DOOM. WE WILL HAVE YOUR BLOOD, WINTER KING, AND WE WILL GRANT YOUR KINGDOM ONE MORE YEAR OF ITS HALF-LIFE. SO IS THE PACT, UNTIL WE HAVE DEVOURED EVERY SOUL IN YOUR CITY WALLS."**

Your shrug. "Alright."

You can _feel_  the silence pressing in on you, like something sniffing your neck. The woods growl.

**"YOU WILL DIE IN TERROR."**

"I doubt it. Dirk's done this a hundred times. He's not afraid of you. And tell the truth, this whole _eternal winter_  business doesn't scare me much. Skaia could do with a prolonged cold." Brow creasing as you think, you try again to find something in the darkness to focus on and address. "You know, it's funny. Or, not funny, this is about as far from a jovial jape as you can get, but-- if you're here to devour our fear or what-have-you, I'm surprised you're even about. Dirk's not afraid of you, and no Skaian's been worried about long winters since before I was _born_." You make a face, nose wrinkling. "So what do you even haunt these days?"

Suddenly, it _hurts_. The encroaching darkness reaches for you like blades. Along your shoulders, against your chest, slicing into your hip and piercing your thigh. You yelp in shock, and fall onto your side on the grass beside the altar, hands slapping against every point of hurt, unable to cover them all at once.

It stops all at once as you curl up, hands settled over your head. You hear it breathe around you.

**"WE ARE THE FEAR OF EVERY LIVING THING. YOU ARE A WORTHLESS ANT STARING DOWN AN AVALANCHE. YOU WILL DIE TO STAVE OFF A NIGHTMARE, AND BE FORGOTTEN. ALL WHO LOVE YOU WILL FORGET YOU. WE SHALL FORGET YOU, YOU AND ALL THINGS WHEN WE TOWER OVER THE RUINS OF YOUR KINGDOM, LITTLE KING."**

There's a burning in your hand. You press your fingers against it, wincing. It really had a go at you.

You sit up, looking at the altar before you and the darkness beyond.

"I'm not afraid of that," you mutter. "I'm not here to bring spring or save Skaia or any of it." Your thumbs stroke the ache in your hands; it's burning, hot and bright. "I just don't want Dirk to do this again. I don't reckon I'm _scared_  of that, either. It just..." A sharp laugh, like a bubble out of your mouth. "I'm just real mad about the whole thing, honestly!"

The black shroud is boiling, like a pot of squid ink about to overflow. **"KNEEL ON THE ALTAR."**

"Make me!" you snap, annoyed at its insistence. The heat is spreading up your arm, scalding away the biting cold. It hurts, but it hurts like a limb coming back to life after a long sleep. Pinpricks that fade after every sting.

You climb to your feet. "Tell me something. If you're the _Horror_ , the fear of all cities, all that lark, tell me: Aren't you just _starving_  right now?"

You take a step towards the darkness.

And the darkness shrinks back.

 

* * *

 

When you reach the streets of Skaia, there is a crowd.

People are gathered around the lamp posts and their dying lights, speaking in low voices, sharp whispers and striken faces.

Only when you start pushing past them do they even _notice_  you, and how you wished they didn't.

"The Eternal Prince."

"Is he the Prince? But... his handmaiden..."

"I heard it was the Alchemist's grandson! How'd that happen?"

"Maybe he's going to stop him?"

"Ol' Lady English can't lose her boy!"

Enough whispers fold together into a din, like paper layered over and over until it's as impenetrable as a knight's shield. Even the sound is like swimming upstream as you push on to the outer gates.

What you want is to ask them how long ago it was, when did they see Jake. What you want is to ask them why they didn't... _stop_  him. This sacrifice is yours, it's why you are here, you and your clever prison you locked yourself into. Everyone knows it's yours, so why would they  _let him go?_

You cannot run fast enough, your slippers pounding hard against the stone streets. The chill of winter when your blood has already turned to ice.

This isn't supposed to happen, and apparently you are the only one with the sense to stop it. The only thing on your side is your fear.

 

* * *

 

"You're starving," you murmur in something like wonder.

The darkness whips around, incensed. **"THEY WILL ALL DIE IF YOU DON'T KNEEL."**

"You've been starved for..." There's no number; even Dirk himself doesn't remember. "For a _long_  damn time. Dirk's not been afraid of you. The people aren't afraid of you since Dirk fixed the whole problem." You huff out another laugh, baffled as the pieces click together. " _I'm_  sure not afraid of you. What can you do to me? I've had worse threats from my gran during my apprenticeship. You've not been scared 'til you've been caught out after curfew by the head of my household, lemme tell you!"

The Horror says nothing, just writhes.

Your hand is burning. You clench it.

There is something there. Solid and warm.

You have been waiting for the moment when you could cut the bond tying Dirk to Skaia. It seemed an impossible task, something that  _demanded_  the promise of a Seer to accomplish. Dirk's devotion to his kingdom was not a rope, but a chain he willingly fashioned and locked around his neck. Often, you feared nothing could break it.

**"ALL LIVING THINGS KNOW FEAR. WE ARE THAT FEAR."**

"You're really not," you tell it, distracted as your mind races.

Because here, you see it.

And here is your chance.

It's tenuous and withered, the rope binding Skaia to this creature. It's old, and fraying, but strengthened by the trials of time, of frost melted and frozen again, fiber and ice woven together into something stubborn and suffocating.

You lift your hand, and the darkness retreats in the presence of golden light coalescing in your hand. The summer bright rays slice ribbons through the darkness to reveal glimpses of the forest beyond, and at your feet, the altar begins to melt like clouded ice. Your other hand lifts, finding the bowstring as easily as you now see the rope, stretching back along the path to Skaia.

Within your heart lies a single golden arrow.

You pull back, and release.

 

* * *

 

There are things you've forgotten over your tenure as the Prince of Skaia. Information and names and faces, all scrubbed clear with the eroding passage of time. It's been a persistent nagging worry in the back of your mind, fed by Jake's own concerns about your memory.

But this, you recognize immediately. You've not experienced it in over a hundred years, but you know it like an indelible part of your own soul.

You have almost reached the gate when you feel the passage of Winter. The shadows around you lighten, the cold itself shivers, and you _feel_  it down to your bones.

Winter is over.

And it was not you on the altar.

It was not you on the altar, because Jake went instead. Your handmaiden, your companion, the first person who made you feel _alive_. Jake and his generosity and his skilled hands and his vibrant green eyes and his loud laugh and his long vigils at your bedside and his burning hearth of a smile and his hopes for your future.

Now, just blood and a fallen crown.

Your breath catches in your chest, and you cannot breathe.

Your legs go out from under you, and you _cannot_ breathe.

The paving stones are cold under you, and your chest hurts like nothing you have ever felt before in your life and afterlives. Not even a killing blow.

Your body bends forward, your own countenance and weight suddenly too heavy to keep holding up, and you clutch the stabbing pain in your chest. It's deep, behind your ribs, beyond your reach.

Once upon a time, you were told love would undo you, and you turned it into salvation.

Then, you fell in love.

Everything hurts, until it doesn't.

And part of you thinks  _finally._

 

* * *

 

As the Horror's form dissipates like incense smoke, you find yourself standing in the Skaian forest in the pale light of morning.

It's a clearing, unmarked and unremarkable. This place that has controled the kingdom for so many years, now empty. There should be something. A monument to all the... To Dirk. And you guess to the people who preceded him, but mostly to Dirk.

You still have the sword, still hanging off your hip, awkwardly dragging the side of your robe down. It's a relief to unsheath it. Even if you're unused to this type of weapon, you have the strength to set the point to the dirt and push down.

It slides in, passing through earth like sand until it comes to a stop. On its pommel and hilt you rest the Crown of the Winter King.

Stepping back, you survey the improvised memorial. You think it's fine. It's probably good enough, and if someone from the Artisan Guild wants to add to it, they're welcome. But now, in this moment, you want to go home. You want to see Dirk. You want to see his face and hold it between your hands as you tell him this is  _over._

Just the thought of it swells in you. It's over. The Horror is gone. _You_  were the one to slay it, and you... you are excited.

Putting your back to the Crown, you hurry away as your mind spins with the possibilities. No more of that tower. No more addresses and ceremonies. No more shallow expressions of fealty that the Prince doesn't even want. No more days of agonizing pain and months of hiding the scar tissue left behind.

No more scars, you think. Or, at least his own scars. No more taking on the pains of a kingdom.

The thought warms you more than any summer day. You broke the curse and Dirk is free.

Surely that'll get you forgiven for a little rogue alchemy.

But when you return to Skaia, and it's like nothing you have ever seen.

No one even notices as you push open the heavy gates and step within the walls. You are not even remotely alone. The cold start of day has done nothing to keep people inside, and the main thoroughfare leading up through the markets and the central square is _filled_  with people. Even the crowds after Dirk's sacrifices are nothing to this. As you try to enter, your shoulders bump against people.

And the warm hope is doused. And now, _here_ , you're afraid.

There are tears. There are hands pressed over open mouths. There are people embracing. You are reminded of the bower, almost precisely a year ago.

There is, finally, someone who grabs your sleeve and drags you to a halt. A woman wearing the heavy apron of the Forge, face streaked with dark smudges and shock. "You returned," she breathes. Red-limmed eyes flicker over you, looking for... maybe a crown, maybe a scar, something.

"What happened," you ask, voice trembling.

Her lip quakes, and she shakes herself hard, her grip on your sleeve tightening almost painful as she bends. And bows with a ragged inhale.

"The new King of Skaia," she says. "M-may the stars sing the old King to sleep."

He jerk out of her grip, stepping back. You nearly knock over the people behind you, but you don't care. "What _happened_?" you demand even as your throat tightens painfully. "Where is he?"

The woman turns away, face crumbling. There is nothing good here. You push on towards the castle and try to think.

As you force your way, you hear stray remarks without context.

The repeated chorus: _The Prince is dead. Our hope is lost._

You left him asleep on the floor, and no matter how potent a table charm is, valerian _can't_  kill a man. It makes no sense. He was safe. You left him there to be safe until you... figured out a way to free him. You always meant to return to him.

Now, he's _gone?_  How?

You have no one to ask, only a rising panic that has you tearing through the crowd, pushing people harshly out of your way. It's mean, but today, you figure you've earned it. You killed the Horror. You ended the curse. You broke winter's hold.

That knowledge has time to revolve in your mind as you carve your path into the heart of the kingdom.

Dirk... had his own prophecy.

The idea is like molten glass, untouchable and dangerous. You can't think it. It's too much.

You just have to see him.

When you enter the castle, you have no choice but to follow the procession. It's leading you somewhere. To the Grand Hall.

As you get closer, your steps slow. Around you, walking between the rows of people, you see lilac-draped handmaidens, all with plain white candles in their arms, handing them out to anyone who wishes. People reach out to each other, lighting the wicks off other candles and spare matches.

You cannot stand this. It's as close to a genuine display you've seen and you can't stomach it. Stepping out, you pass the procession and storm into the Grand Hall.

In the lofty chamber, you smell flowers. They are laid neatly on the stone tables, the same used for offerings in the late summer.

And laid over them is Dirk.

Surrounded by mourners and lit candles and black iris and sweetgrass, Dirk is laid on his back over the table, his hands limp at his sides. He is stiller than sleep, motionless, so far from peaceful slumber it makes you sick.

You are at the table before you realize your legs have launched into movement. There's gasps, both at you presence and at _you._  Returned from the woods with your head still tied on just fine.

"Get _away_  from him," you snap at the people lingering at Dirk's sides, people you don't even recognize and so obviously not close to him. "Haven't you done _enough_?"

Thank the dying stars, your outburst earns you some space, and you knock the candles carelessly to the stone floors, taking their place at Dirk's hip.

You take up one of his hands, fingers curling around his wrist and the soft skin near his elbow. When you press his hand to your cheek, they are cold. No. No, no no no.

It occurs to you you're babbling, just from the increasing pain in your neck as your throat locks up against the wave of despair. "No, no, Dirk, don't you dare. Don't you bloody dare, not after all this. It's not _fair,_ don't do this to me!"

Distantly, you think you shouldn't be squeezing him so tight. You don't want to hurt him. You don't want to leave so much as a bruise on him, but you can't stop, clutching his arm, his shoulder, shaking him and yourself.

"Wake up. Wake up, you ridiculous featherbrain, _wake up._ " Every word is like ice shards coming out. "I'm not gone, I'm fine, I told you it'd be fine, you great gorgeous idiot, wake up!" You barely resist the urge to give him a rousing slap. "Come back. I did it. Do you understand, I _did_  it. The Horror is dead, you starved it out and I killed it. You never have to go alone to the woods again." A hysterical laugh flays you. "The forest's lovely. I could show you but you can't be _gone_."

Around you, there's reaction to the news. The Horror is dead. More awe.

You lift your head, and feel fire. "Shut up! Stop, I didn't for it for any of you! I did it for  _him!"_

The silence is absolute. You can hear your own ragged breaths.

You look down at your Prince. His softly parted lips, the closed eyes. The simulacrum of sleep.

Tremors wracking you, you lean down and take his face between your hands like you'd wanted, like you'd hoped for so desperately not an hour ago. "I didn't do this for them. I did it for you. So we could leave and be together, so we could have a _life_ , just you and me." You stroke the hair out of his eyes. "I didn't mean to scare you. I-- I just couldn't have you stopping me when there was a _chance_  I could get you out."

He doesn't listen, and soon you can't even see him anymore. Your eyes swim, and you waver, sinking down to put your head against his shoulder.

You still have his hand grasped tight in yours, his cool skin, the complete lack of pulse. Laying against him, you are prepared for more of the same, the finality of... this. The last thing fucking _winter_  has taken, the Horror's posthumous revenge on you.

Under your cheek is a warmth so pure and permeating, it burns like gold, and you leap back in surprise, palm slapping to your face.

And finally you see what the penitent people of Skaia have laid their dearly departed Prince in.

When you left the tower, it was swathed in the cloak of silent passage, an assurance you would be able to dodge the attention and possible disapproval of the guards who patrolled the castle. It was insurance.

But it meant you left behind the royal cloak, the most recognizable symbol of the Prince of Skaia beside his metal wrought collar. His grand cloak was clasped around his shoulders with your forget-me-not pin, and so he laid there with a set of great wings around his body. They were subtle, black pinions, but as you touched them, laid over them in all your sorrow, they began to shine. To shimmer with yellow light and a magic so dense you could _taste_  it.

A hundred phoenix feathers.

You rise up on your knees over him, the shock so total, you feel tingling in your fingertips.

Dirk is laid wrapped in the embrace of a phoenix, the most obscene display of wealth and magic you have ever seen in your entire storied life.

And you look down at him, and you smile.

In alchemy, there are two pursuits touted as the singular goals of the field. One is the ability to create gold, and you've known that secret since you were a teenager.

The other has always been the search for immortality.

As far as materials go, phoenix feathers have been the closest to dead-eye on the target, but given their scarcity, they weren't a feasible solution. Until now.

You laugh, choked and tight. There are still tears in your eyes, but they're not of loss. They're of hope.

Attached to your belt is a small, perfect athame, given to you this last Candlenights. You draw it with intent singing through your blood, and rest it on the table. With great care, you pull Dirk's hands on his chest, so much more like a dead man than before. Taking time, you lace his fingers, and pat them reassuringly before you take both edges of the cloak and wrap it in full around him until only his pale, drawn face and his bone-white hair is free of it.

In the cookbook grimoires of your grandmother's library, there are probably exact recipes for this kind of magic. But you figure you have an entire bird's worth of feathers imbued with the core essence of revival magic here, and that'll be enough to make it work. Brute force magic.

With the athame, you cut a thin line across your palm, wincing at the poor practice; palm cuts are _terrible_  arcana, more dramatic than functional. But you also don't really care about a week of potential pain. Instead, you spread blood across both your hands and trail it down the expanse of the cloak, and think with singular desperation: _Please._

As you touch them and set off the catalyst, each feather burns. It catches golden flame and burns down to grey ash, the cloak's body coming to pieces under the stress. The smoke is prickled with motes of light that settle across Dirk's body, and as they touch him, every single mote dims. And with each one, the light soaks into his skin, illuminating his drained pallor.

It's a conflagration, and you cough around the smoke and the almost overwhelming stench of magic you've set off. Coughing, you lean back and wave it away before it strangles you.

Still, you stay by his side, and you wait for the world to answer you and _give him back._

The deathly visage of the Prince is gone, and instead Dirk opens his eyes with a weak flutter of his lashes. Before he's finished stirring, you shove the tattered remnants of the cloak away and drag him bodily upward and into your arms. He is as warm as the feathers had been, heat and magic flooding his body, and you can _feel_ it as the magic turbulently shivers and wracks through him, and hold him through the aftershocks.

Soon, his hand, curled limply around your waist, twitches and tightens, fisting in the pine green of your robe. He breathes hard and deep, and presses his head against your shoulder.

"J'ke," he says, weak in your arms.

You bury your face in his soft hair, and sob like a tired, wretched thing, bloodied athame gripped tight in your hand, ready to visit retribution on whatever would dare to take this from you again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /salutes.
> 
> last chapter, the coda.


	19. coda: wheat

 

> **"I think we deserve a soft epilogue, my love. We are good people and we've suffered enough.”**  
>  \- Seventy Years of Sleep # 4. nikka ursula (n.t)

 

If you were to count up the moments you've lost, the days and weeks and months that are featureless and blank on your memory, it would add up to a lifetime. Someone else's lifetime.

It's with some level of resentment that you wake up, and know in your bones you've let even more slip by you. Before you even open your eyes, your mouth curls into a grimace. Still, it's difficult, your entire body weighty like lead as you stir. A familiar feeling that tends to follow your sacrifices.

That thought, that concept of the yearly sacrifices, bounces like a spilled marble around your skull until it connect with memory, and you start awake, eyes finally jerking open.

It's bright, and you shield your eyes.

"Well then, His Majesty finally sussed his way out of the deadlands back to the living. Took your time, didn't you?"

The window near the bed is open, and outside the sun is shining in a cloudless sky. Just the color of the world around you is bright enough to sting, and you hold your hand out against the distant window to block the view.

Sitting in a chair by your bed is the guildmaster herself, Jake's grandmother, familiar green eyes in a slightly less familiar face. She looks you over as you stir. "Welcome back."

You lift a hand to your neck, surprised at the lack of pain. "Did I... go somewhere?" The scar around your neck is still sealed. You trace the soft incongruous stripe of skin and try to think.

It was not severed.

Because _Jake._

"There it is," Grandma English murmurs with unappreciated smugness.

"What happened, where is he? Is he--" you voice breaks.

"Lets have none of that." She leans in her chair to look to the door. "Jacob! Get in here, child, your Prince is awake."

Outside, there is a loud _thump_ , like something being unceremoniously dropped, and footsteps. Then, Jake catches himself on the doorframe, his face brightening like the sun as he feasts his eyes on you. " _Finally_." He pushes off the door, climbing right onto the bed and into your grasp. "By the fucking pillars, you scared me, you great dreaming idiot."

He pulls you close, against his chest, and presses his face into your hair. You clutch his shoulder, and this feels familiar. But nothing in your head makes sense. There are gaps. There are gaps that _don't_  come from your own extended periods of loneliness and isolation. You breathe him in, greenery and fresh smoke. "What _happened?_ "

Blunt nails drag over your scalp, through your hair. It’s like he can’t touch you enough. "What happened. Uh. What... do you remember?"

Behind you, there's a terse sigh. "Don't be coy with him. Everyone else in this kingdom knows the story now. My wise and clever grandson stole the Winter Crown and went to see the Horror, and struck it down. The Eternal Prince forfeited his title, dropping dead in the snow. Then, for an encore, the Last Winter King of Skaia came to the Prince's funeral and reignited his life." She scoffs. "Bards are already composing their ballads."

"Starfuckingblight, I wish they wouldn't," Jake mutters.

You push him back until you can look at him and touch his neck. It's unmarred by any line, and you take a shuddering breath. "What? You did what? I remember..." It's all a fucking mess of panic and fear, a fear like you have never felt before in your life. "I tried to follow you."

"I know," Jake says, quieter. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I thought you were--"

"Not even for a second. There you went, leaping to conclusions like an irascible bullfrog. I'm fine. And now, you are too, and that's all that matters."

Slumping, you put your head back on his chest. There's so much that happened, and it's much like staring into the sun. Too much. "How much time did I lose?" you ask quietly.

"It's spring," Jake tells you. "Apparently even with a cavalcade of phoenix magic and good fortune, you still needed to recouperate from-- that."

Behind you, the chair creaks, and a moment later, the door closes. A breath sighs out of Jake, across your hair. "She's hard about it, but she was worried too."

More than anything, you're hungry, and as your surroundings come further into focus, you want to get out of this bed. You want... something. To do something. It's an intangible desire that's burning through you. For the moment, holding onto Jake helps, but the unease is growing.

It comes together into a terrifying thought: "The Horror's dead."

"Yeah." He rubs your back. "I laid the killing blow on it, but you, Dirk. You starved it for so long, it was barely hanging on. Now you don't have to weather its damned sketchy comments and threats ever again."

He means it to be reassuring, but you feel it like a vise squeezing your ribs. The Horror is gone. It was the fulcrum your entire life balanced on. Now what?

Jake's arms squeeze, and he leans back to look down at you. "Dirk... you're going all tense like a rabbit on me. It's alright. This means you don't have to do _any_  of this anymore. No one's going to die for that inky menace anymore. You don't... need to be some damned sacrificial effigy."

That's the fear, settling in. You can feel it in your throat. "Yeah,” you say, barely more than a croak.

"What's wrong?"

The truth of it is simple, if maybe pathetic. You shut your eyes. "I don't... know yet. I don't really know what else to do, if this is... done."

You've spent almost all of your long, meandering life doing this. If it's been lifted from you, you don't know what the fuck is left in its place.

To your surprise, Jake smiles. "Uh, I've been... cogitating, trying to crack that hard nut for the last few weeks, actually. I realize it must be a lot, but... Can I make a suggestion?"

 

* * *

 

When you leave the castle, it's so early in the morning, light has not even crested the walls of the city. The sky is lightening, from tepid grey to lighter hues. There's a glaze of dew over everything you touch, and you keep frowning and petting your hands down your cloak to dry them.

The only thing not strewn with lingering dampness is the horse. She's a grand burly draft mare with a thick coat the color of an acorn shell and black, shining eyes. Even as you should be helping with the cart, you find yourself gravitating towards her, and the strange focused attention she gives you, her massive head following your steps.

Her mane is a little unruly, you think. Carefully, you pull it back, away from her face. She snorts loudly, and you jump back.

"Easy," Jake calls from where he's pulling at the canopy. "Don't startle her."

"She startled me," you shoot back.

"A falling leaf could startle you, love."

That may be true, your nerves have always been kind of a knot. That doesn't keep you from feeling sour about it. Now a little more determined, you approach the horse again and try to pet it. With so much _mass_ , it's hard to know where, but she bows her head a little and lets out a sigh like a deep bellows. That seems good.

You should really be helping. But again: nerves.

A lot of things Jake said made sense. You don't remember much of it, when you apparently died and were revived, but everyone else in the kingdom does. Already, people are looking to Jake as someone worth uplifting for his deeds.

And you can see the poison in Jake's face at the thought of it. The bitterness in him has fermented into something quite a bit more dangerous. It seems so long ago he came to you, warm and kind and maybe a little too guileful, and now it's not that he's changed, but you can see the edges better. The sharp things he keeps sheathed for you.

You could probably survive living in the tower for the rest of your days. It would be a lonely, miasmic existence, but you've weathered it for so long.

Jake, on the other hand.

So, it seems almost a foregone conclusion. You're leaving.

"Leave her alone and hop up," Jake tells you as he pulls himself into the front of the cart now that he’s finished tying down the cover over the back of the wagon. "We've got a long ways to go and I don't want to camp out in the woods."

With the help of his offered hand, you pull yourself up next to him. Once you’re secure, he nods and takes up the reins in his hands, muttering about how he'd best remember which is 'go' and which is 'kick me in the head.' Nonetheless, he seems to get it right, and the cart jerks into motion.

Draped around your shoulders is the cloak of silent passage. As the cart pulls away from the courtyard, you toy with the ornately sewn hem of the hood.

You leave it down, and sit back against the wooden seat, looking outward as Skaia passes.

There was no royal address, no decree issued, no hint of your departure. A small, stubborn part of you wishes you hadn't slept through Spring's Eve. It would have been nice, to stand out on that balcony one last time, to say... something. To go off script and leave them with something memorable.

But even thinking about the words you could say makes you feel lost. Would you thank them? Would you tell them how you struggled? Would you just tell them you were leaving?

The words never come together in an orderly line, and slipping out at first light becomes a relief.

Only the thoroughfare through Skaia is wide enough to accommodate your cart, and the horse's hooves clop loudly against the stones below. You imagine the noise echoing around the side streets, knocking against the houses and guilds, liable to wake the entire kingdom. Your fingers curl white-knuckled against the edge of the cart, something like guilt catching against you. This is running away, isn't it?

Very few Skaians are awake at this hour, but of those who are, every one of them watches you pass. A few stare with wide, shocked eyes that burn like hot coals. And a few others smile, which is just fucking confusing.

You let out a ragged breath. Jake glances aside at you.

His eyes sweep over you, assessing, and his lips press together.

He looks ahead, and keeps directing the cart without a moment's hesitation.

Alright. Okay. There is something about leaving it to him that... helps. You look out again, taking in the kingdom that was once yours and now feels so foreign and distant.

When the outer gates open for you, and close behind, you feel like you left something back there, locked behind iron and heavy wood. In its stead, there is a place in you left hollow and anticipatory.

"Alright?" Jake asks after a few moments, when he’s put enough distance between you and Skaia.

"Yeah," you murmur. "Think so."

 

* * *

 

"House Harley owns it," Jake tells you hours into your trundling journey, after a break to feed the horse. "Used to be, the guild was just the sort of  shop front for our wares, but the actual work was done in the apothecary houses. Then, people stopped wanting to live out in the woods, even during the safer months, and the botanists picked up the slack. But we still have 'em out here. This one's by a river, according to the map. That'll be nice. No one in Skaia's lived near running water for generations."

You're lying against him, lethargic with nothing to do but wait. Beyond the canvas cover stretched over your heads, the woods are deep and green, coming back to life after the winter. With the sun overhead, the shadows cast by the treetops are plentiful, but fleeting. Nothing like the pitch dark you've faced before. Streams of sunlight keep catching against something in the air, dust or disturbed earth, whatever it is that lights up gold as it spins lazily in the breeze.

"It's pretty far out of the way," Jake goes on. "I reckon we'll be left well alone. It's gonna be a while before anyone's brave enough to face the forest, even with the danger gone."

Then, he breathes, "Dirk."

You lift you head to look at him. The reins are held looped around one hand as the horse follows the vague path presumably left by alchemists who walked it decades ago. His eyes flick and move, tracing your features. "This doesn't need to be forever," he says. "But I want to..." He takes a deep breath, looking down at his hands. "When I thought about what you could have if I got you out of that thrice-damned tower, this... I think this'll suit you."

You nod, trying to be reassuring, but remain silent because you don’t know how to put your fear into words. Only that with everything you're leaving in Skaia, you don't know much about the person who remains.

But, you do know you want to try this out. Whatever Jake considers happiness. You want to see it.

It's another few hours in the cart before your surroundings resolve into something worth taking note of. Your idle surveillance of the forest around you have been a lot of picturesque but unremarkable scenery. Eventually, the sound of water swells around you, and you almost come awake to the sound, incongruous and new.

"Thank the stars, I was _honestly_  starting to suspect I'd gotten us lost. Or the map was wrong. Or a faerie just awayed the damn house." Jake points ahead. "There's the bridge I've been looking for with no small amount of concern."

The path crosses the river with an old stone bridge, flat but sturdy as it stretches from one bank to the next. At your side, Jake consults his map and beams excitedly.

"Nearly there?" you ask.

"Close enough I'm tempted to speed our way a bit, but... our horse has been a stalwart guardian this far." He gives her swishing tail a fond look. "I forgot to ask if she has a name, I was in such a rush. We should come up with something."

You can't help the surprise. "Are we... keeping her? Is she ours?"

"Oh, 'course. This far out, you need a horse for travel." He hitches his thumb back, indicating the path behind you. "You want to walk that yourself?"

Fair enough. Still, you now... have a horse, and presumably a house. If the house counts as yours. It belongs to Jake's family, but you're still not certain what that means for you. You don't want to be presumptuous, but also know the stern look Jake gets when you've missed something like that.

You're contemplating horse names when the cart stops.

It's settled in a grassy sprawl in front of the apothecary house. The idea that a home would be here, this far outside of the safety of the kingdom's walls and amidst all the trees and fauna, was a little hard to imagine after over a century of nothing but the streets of Skaia and the castle. But it exists defiantly, a stout little building right on the edge of the river. It's small enough to maybe be a cottage, made of rich cedar wood and carefully stacked stones. Hanging off it is a water wheel, tilted at an odd angle but otherwise intact.

There's a large garden, verdantly overgrown and spilling out of the worn fencing, enough to push several planks out of place. It's lopsided and chaotic, tumbling out over the grounds, starting to devour the large stone steps up to the entrance.

Up there, the heavy wooden door hangs perfectly, carved with the vague shape of the Harley heraldry.

You're staring at it, taking in the encroaching greenery, the little stable, the chimney that has clearly become home to some local bird, and the fading emerald paint from the roof, when Jake climbs off the cart, his boots crunching loudly against the ground.

"If nothing's taken up residence inside... I would say the reinforcement charms need some reinforcing themselves and that wheel needs to be rehung and looks like the horse is going to need a new roof over her head, but." He puts his hands on his hips. "We can work with this. Don't you think? Dirk?"

You jerk your gaze to him, and find him offering his hand to you to help you down. Right. You're here.

If Jake's put off by your hesitation, he doesn't show it, just waggling his fingers at you entreatingly.

Taking his hand and climbing off the cart after almost a solid day's travel is like climbing right out of your body. The ground feels unsteady under your feet as you touch down, and you put a hand on the horse's flank to keep upright.

"You think someone lives here?" you ask.

"No, more that some bats might've filled the place. Or some other woodland critter. Nothing too difficult." He gently lets go of you and starts up the steps. "But it'll be dark soon, so we'll need to hunker down. There's bedrolls near the foot of the cart, can you grab 'em?"

He leaves you, and you suck in a deep breath, air flooding your lungs. There is something a cousin to panic in you, and standing there a moment to lean on the horse's side helps. She makes huffy noises at you until you stroke her fur a bit, her tail flicking.

When you're calmer, you circle back to the cart. It drops in the back, leaving the canvas stretched over top, and butted right against the edge are two bound rolls of heavy woven material. You pull them loose, slinging them over your shoulder, and grab the glass stormlamp right behind them before taking the stone steps yourself up to the small porch and the open door.

Closer, you can see the chipped and faded paint, where the House symbology was once apparently colored in, worn away by the years and weather. That'd be easy to fix, you think.

Inside is dark, even darker than the setting sun would suggest. Pulling the lamp free, you push your thumb against the embossed flame symbol, bringing the fire to life.

Everything in your tower had been stone. Everything in this house is wood. Long planks making up the floors, a wooden staircase leading up just a few feet inside the main room, wooden beams supporting the pointed arch of the ceiling. Lifting the lamp higher, you can see the brick fireplace against one wall, between two large, ornate windows with stained glass accents. They cast some colored light into the room, but not much, murky and clouded from years of neglect.

There's a kitchen through an archway on the far end of the room, and rocking chairs and shelves filled with old glass jars and corroded metal canisters.

Jake has a long stick in hand, waving it around the room. "Watch your step! A whole community of spiders have gotten cozy in here. Let me clear out the webs before you walk into one."

"Better than bats," you opine.

"Bats aren't so bad," Jake says kindly. "Both of 'em keep the bug population down. Bats are just easier to startle."

As you stand there in the... it's not a sitting room. It's the room. A living room and storage area and apparent garden shed, given the old tools scattered over by the side door leading out to the garden. Craning your neck, you can sort of see up the stairs, up to the loft.

"Bed'll be up there," Jake tells you as he checks each room for interlopers and spiderwebs. "In theory. We'll figure it out!"

Every step you take leaves a faint mark in the dust. That seems to be the case with the house itself. Walking over to the window, you can see the stained glass is in the shape of arcane symbols, the phases of the moon in pale yellow amid a panel of indigo blue. You drag a finger across the glass, and some of the mire catches on your skin, revealing more vibrant colors underneath.

The fireplace's bricks are punched up with clouded glass blocks and more symbols, the alchemic runes for fire and earth. Interspersed in the wall are carved scrolls with similar markings. You think the rug might be woven in a design too, but it's too dark and ruined to make sense of.

You set your lamp on the wooden table and wrap your arms around the bedrolls tightly, trying to peer against the shadows to find more. It's like standing in a puzzlebox, every piece of it deliberate and touched.

The floors creak a little with footsteps. "Hey. Give those here."

Jake touches your back softly, and you turn. He pulls the bedrolls out of your grip, putting them on the floor before taking hold of your elbows. "Dirk. Are you alright, love? What's... going through that labyrinthine mind of yours?"

Words are difficult lately. You look around again, as if one of the wall scrolls or colored windows might reveal something to you and make this easier.

"It's not much at the moment, but it's done hard work, standing this long! And Gran gave me a whole box of tiles that'll help tidy the place up. And Jade'll be along with more supplies for us to use to get started--"

"This is... ours?" You grimace at the uncertainty in your voice. You know the answer already, it's a ridiculous question. "Or, I mean..." You swallow, and try again. "I don't have... a lot of things, and there's..."

Jake smiles, lines around his eyes crinkling. "Well. We'll have to work on that. Fill it up."

He bounds away again, back outside, calling back to you about how his room's been full since he was seventeen, and how nice it is to have more space. It's the sort of aimless chatter he does, words without too much _talking_ , spinning them around you like spun wool.

Night's falling fast. There's not a lot of time to clean up anything, but Jake bodily heaves an overturned water barrel out of the stable to give the horse room to rest and feed. After, he grabs essentials from the cart and hurries inside, shutting the door.

For a moment, the two of you just stand in there, looking around.

"Let's throw the old rug out into the garden," Jake says in a burst. "Deal with it tomorrow. Or, given our to-do list, next week."

It's slightly sodden and unpleasant to get rid of, but you manage together, shoving it out the side door. That one doesn't hang as nicely as the front door, and you have to force it back into place, lifting the handle while Jake pushes it inward. But still, it fits back into place eventually.

"We'll fix that," Jake says.

Reaching out, you prod his chest with one finger, leaving a mark on his shirt. "Relax. It's nice."

"Can you blame a fellow for being nervous! You've said barely a word since we left Skaia!" He huffs at you, cheeks puffed almost childishly.

"I'm..." You wince. "There's a lot going on upstairs."

Just that easily, all of the bluster goes out of him. "I know. It's a lot. And you still came along with this scheme of mine. I.." He stops, and leans in to kiss you. "Thank you. I really think this... is good. Better than what we'd have back there."

As he pauses, he pulls a small wooden box out of the pile he unearthed from the cart. Plucking a small clay tile out from a huge collection, he snaps it between his fingers and drops it to the ground. With a sweeping ripple of pale blue light, the waterstain left from the rug and the darkest smudges on the wood lighten and vanish.

Kicking the broken spell tile away, he keeps his gaze low as he goes on. "I love you. It seems silly not to just say it, given everything we... endured, I guess. You know it and I know it, and acting like it's some great secret is just a barrier between me saying it more, so!" He waves his hand irritably, like shooing the thought away. "I love you, but staying in Skaia..." His mouth curves sharply down.

You watch his profile, unfairly handsome with the celestial windows behind him. "But you're the heir to the guild. Eventually..."

Jake is still for a long moment before shaking his head. "Not... anymore. I don't--" He rubs his eyes, pushing his glasses up. "Grandma and I talked about it while you were out. And that-- you were asleep so long, it was quite a time to take stock of the landscape, you know? I didn't know if you'd wake up again, and that sure brings things into a crystal cut focus."

He sighs, hard enough to disturb some drifting dust. "What they did to you... What they would do to me now. I can't handle that. I don't want it."

"You saved me," you point out. Saying it feels honest, and if you're both going to put aside polite fictions, well.

It makes Jake smile, a gleaming crescent in the dim lamplight. "Yeah. Yeah, and I like that. I don't mind being your hero. I sure do mind being _theirs._ "

That hangs in the air as the sun finally falls below the horizon. The quiet isn't absolute; outside is noisy compared to your tower. There's the din of insects chirping and buzzing, the faint but surrounding sound of trees moving in the wind, and a few soft whistles where you think there might be wind blowing into the house.

Jake looks at you, but his face is shadowed enough, you're not sure what's there.

So you guess, and nod. "Bet your grandmother was thrilled to hear that."

He laughs, sharp and surprised. "Oh, she-- she understood, given everything that happened, but spent a solid week grousing about having to groom another heir." He shrugs, and picks up a bedroll, untying it. "I mean, maybe later I'll feel better about it. Taking over, being a monument of Skaian society. But. Maybe not."

"I'd follow you," you tell him. "Whichever you decide."

"I'll keep that in mind. For now, let’s have a bite and get to sleep. We have _quite_  the workload tomorrow. It's pretty exciting."

You unroll your own bedding, and take a supper of dried fruit and sandwich with crusty bread, enough to fill you so you can sleep.

The floor smells of dust and old wood, and it's hard to rest with all the sound around you. But over the past months, you've gotten used to sleeping beside Jake, and wiggling close to rest your head against his shoulder turns an insurmountable task into something easy.

It won't be the only night spent on the floor, but it's the floor of your house. The first home you've had in memory.

It's the start of something new in your life so starved of new things.

 

* * *

 

 

There is actually a tremendous amount of work to do. It becomes much more obvious in the light of a new day. The house is... almost beautiful, making something hot pump through your blood as the idea of it being yours starts to settle.

But it has not been touched in a long time, and it's obvious.

Even Jake seems a little overwhelmed, looking through everything. He idly empties a few old jars out the window, then cleans one of the tall stained glass windows to let the light in more, then moves the old garden tools out of the way.

You watch him fumble around for about an hour before taking your waterskins down to the river to fill and grabbing your art supplies from the cart. Finding a blank page in your book and a charcoal, you start making a list.

Some things are more important right now. Cleaning out old, unuseable things to be burned later. Rehanging the garden door. Finding the holes in the house to patch them before it rains. Clearing out the chimney of the avian residents. Getting the kitchen in a useable state. Investigating the bed in the loft.

You fill an entire page just with immediately necessary tasks, ignoring things that can wait for later. Leaving the page and charcoal on the table, you and Jake start divvying up the items on the list.

Jake takes most of the outdoor work, including stomping around the roof to find the weaknesses. In the meantime, you take some of the rune tiles and start finding the most strategic places to snap them.

Each one is a thin piece of fired clay with runes adorning it, various spells sealed in delicate material. Even as carefully made and useful as they are, their power is limited.

You snap one in the stone sink in the kitchen, and frown at the amount of grime left even after the spell fades.

Upstairs, Jake's hammering away at something, content in his work.

You roll up your sleeves and get to yours.

It's exhausting in a way you've never felt before. You've been tired before; after every sacrifice, you were weak and helpless for weeks. But by the end of this day, your arms ache and your back protests when you try to stand straight, and it's so much, you feel worn down.

Both of you sit down by the river, washing up in the clear water before laying on the smooth rocks of the shore, eating.

Jake grins at you, face gleaming with honestly-earned sweat and dust, his hair curling more dramatically around his hairline. "You were a scholar and an artist and a caged prince. Never had an real day of work in your life."

In retribution, you lay your body against his back heavily, making him take your weight. He grunts, and laughs.

You sleep on the floor in front of the fire for almost a week before Jake is willing to tackle the loft. In the morning, he jumps up and down the stairs a few times, both feet on each step, trying to get each one to give under the force. None do, and Jake pats the sturdy brace of the stairs proudly. "Reinforcement charms! And they say alchemists can't do magic."

"Do they?" you ask, trudging up to the loft.

"Yes, it's a silly semantic thing. Suppose it doesn't matter anymore, out here. I'm enough of a witch to dazzle you."

Upstairs, the loft hangs over half the house, built over the kitchen and washroom. The wide expanse of the living room is visible below, just old rickety railing separating you from a sharp drop.

In the loft proper, though, is a bed. It's not in perfect shape anymore; compared to the palatial bed you've slept in most of your life, it's _quaint_. Thick wooden poles with woven rope threaded and criss-crossed to make a foundation. On top, the mattress is worn down with a long rip down one of the seams.

Jake joins you and crosses his arms as he looks it over. "Oh. Hm."

You kick the mattress. "Throw it out into the garden?"

"No! Most of it's fine! Just needs some refilling, you wasteful cad." He crouches down and opens up the rip to peer inside. "Throw some stuffing in here for support, sew it back up. Jade's bringing bed linens. We'll have stuff to soften it up."

You have half a mind to send word to Skaia that you want _your_  bed, but that's probably not allowed. So, it’s more nights in the bedrolls until Jake's cousin shows up.

Everything is hard work. It's intimidating, but the glimpses underneath keeps you focused. The sink is a grimy mess to get clean, but after you find the stone basin set with flat, colorful pebbles of riverstones, arranged in rings of blue and green and slate grey. The porch, once filled with cobweb and mulch, comes clear and reveals hanging hooks for a swing mounted in overhead. A closet shoved full of detritus has a much-less mothbitten rug that unrolls into a vibrant green and yellow sun across the middle of the floor, as well as more lamps, each with a piece of amber that glows like firelight at your touch.

You keep _finding things_. Pots and pans all emblazoned with heating runes. A mortar and pestle made of orange-red marble you've never seen before. Flowering ivy hanging off one corner of the roof and right in the path of the kitchen window. A windchime that looks like it was carved from wood, only for you to find it's solid gold. The puzzlebox keeps opening further and further as you go.

A few days in, Jake wakes up and declares it a day of rest. "Or my bones are going to fall out," he explains, which makes little sense, but you're tired too.

You've cleaned enough pots to make tea, and the stoneware mugs left over from the last residents are huge. Together, both of you sit by the broken water mill, over the river.

There's a calm here like a heavy blanket fallen over everything. Just the water’s movement and birds flitting between the trees. Across the lake, you see a family of deer drinking from the river, secure in their knowledge you're too far from them.

Jake's leg presses against yours. You'd like to reach for more.

However. "Is your cousin bringing a bathtub?"

Jake chokes on his tea, slapping his chest as he coughs. "Uh, come again?"

"Bath." You look down at yourself. Even with washing up in the river about four times a day, you feel dirt like it's embedding into your skin, becoming a part of you. "I really want a bath. I'm disgusting."

"You are not disgusting, you're beautiful," Jake chides, and grins when you glare at him. "Well, aren't you the fastidious little city mouse."

"You've lived in Skaia all your life," you remind him.

"I have the forest in my blood. You, obviously not. Artist and scholar."

It's sorely tempting to shove him into the water. You scowl into your drink.

"We could build a bath hole," Jake offers.

You can feel the way your entire face transforms with distaste.

"Topple the fucking pillars, you are a handful. It's not as bad as you make it sound!" He waves a hand to the water. "We find a nice deep bit of water and build a wall 'round it, close it off with rocks. Enough water still flows through it to clean you off, but you can soak in and wash up." He leans forward to examine your face. "You're still sucking lemons over there."

Since you got here, you've not _missed_  much about Skaia. The apothecary house is the most interesting project you've ever seen before, and it's so filled with secrets and strange comforts, you've not thought longingly of your tower once since you arrived.

But by the gods, you miss your baths. The suspended vats of rainwater, the heavy porcelain curved perfectly for your neck. The salts and soaps.

"You should strip down and go wash your hair, at least," Jake says. "You'll feel better. And I could watch."

You stare at him, and his growing smile, the way he leans back on his palms and lifts his eyebrows at you. Oh.

Alright.

 

 

You end up building the bath hole. You're not happy about it, but you're cleaner.

 

* * *

 

You've just about forgotten about the impending visitor when Jade's arrival interrupts your day. You’re minding your own business, brushing the horse's mane and sitting on the side of the stable when another cart comes around the bend and over the stone bridge. At the strange sight, there's a whip crack of uncertainty that strikes your spine like a target, and you sit up so fast you nearly overbalance and fall off your perch.

Jake strides out from the porch, waving his arms. His cousin waves back from her seat, and brings her cart in nearby.

From afar, you can see them embrace and talk to each other, matching dark hair and green eyes and builds.

You know Jade as the penitent from the Botany Guild. Nothing really beyond that. You sit put as Jake guides Jade on a tour of the house.

Lingering and brushing the horse, you feel a little guilty. As far as family goes, you don't... have anyone anymore. The uniqueness of your situation broke your branch off the family tree pretty definitively. But now, you're Jake's... someone. And his family is the closest you have to such a thing.

Climbing down, you go to see if you can... help at least.

Jade's cart of supplies is actually better stocked than the one you rode out on, filled with the sort of essentials that aren't obvious until they are missing, as well as more storable foodstuffs.

But out of her cart, three things stand out to you.

The first is the vitally important bed linens. Among them is a sturdy pillowtop that turns the flat, hard suspended mattress into something you could easily find yourself sleeping in. The prospect of sleeping up in the loft instead of on bedrolls spread over the sofa is deeply attractive. And the heavy quilt that arrives with it is even more so.

It’s weirdly satisfying, how you sink to the center of the bed, the pillowtop and blankets crowding around you. It’s nice.

 

Second, is the dog.

While Jake's still showing Jade around, the dog sleeping behind the cart seat gets restless and leaps out, white fur blinding in the sunlight. With a cheerful bark, he bolts off to explore the area.

"Halley!" Jake calls after him, leaning over the porch. "Leave the horse alone, you old bonedigger!"

" _The horse_ , Jake," Jade chides, snorting indelicately. "It's been like two weeks! Pets and labor animals deserve proper names!"

"Well, I don't know! I've been a little busy to ordain a proper moniker, leave me alone."

You clear your throat. "I, uh. Acorn? Maybe? I was thinking Acorn."

Jade smiles and nods. "Acorn. That's a nice name. Seed of new beginnings."

"Halley, leave Acorn alone!" Jake shouts more, before going to intervene.

So, you have a dog, sent along from the esteemed matriarch of the Harley family. Apparently a dog is vital to life this far out from civilization. Once he calms down, Halley finds a spot on the rug, lying in the light from the window, and falls asleep with a familiar _wuf_  noise.

 

The last item that catches your attention isn’t immediate, and escapes your notice for a while. After you unpack Jade's cart, most things are piled in the living room. She stays overnight, and then returns to Skaia, leaving you with the unorganized mound of housewares to sort through and find places for.

Wrapped up in two heavy blankets, you find a mirror. It's not a large one, about four hands tall, sitting on two wrought legs. Like many heirlooms of the family, it carries the heraldry: the edges are etched with curved, golden stalks of wheat in a gesture you find a little amusing in how on the nose it is.

You take it upstairs, since that's where you and Jake get dressed and, logically, a mirror makes the most sense. Placing it takes time; the steepled ceiling of the loft gives you no place to hang it, so instead you set it on the cedar chest where your clothes currently live. Even that's imperfect, since you open the chest daily.

But it's the first mirror in the house. The one is the washroom was broken when you arrived, and there just hasn't been another one around. Now, you set up this one and get caught up staring into your reflection.

You don't wear a royal collar anymore. You're not even sure where that thing went. Best bet is that Jake destroyed it in a fit of pique, given his thoughts on the ornament.

But out here, your neck has been bared by the open collar of your shirts and tunics. The thought hasn't really crossed your mind, but now, looking at yourself, you can see how the line of severance around your neck is healing. This is the first time you have had all the attentions and talents of a pharmalchemist to aid you. And normally by now, you would be just healing up from the sacrifice anyway. Hiding the barely-sealed red gash from sensitive eyes.

Now, there is still a clear scar wrapped around you like a torque, but the latent red and pink hues are fading out, leaving a pale, soft line of skin in their place.

Sitting on the floor, you take hold of the mirror by its stand to tilt it at the angle you need to examine as much of the scar as you can. What you can't see, you trace with your fingertips, finding the pale line almost tantalizing soft to the touch, like it'd crack if you pressed too hard.

You're so caught up, you don't hear the frankly pretty loud creaking of the stairs, and Jake finds you like that, frozen as you catch sight of him in the mirror.

He puts his hand on the railing, leaning on it (it's been repaired now, it can bear his weight), and watches you as you shamefully lower your hand to your lap and stand the mirror back up.

Jake takes a breath, and leans his head against his arm, body slumped in a weird display of... something. Weariness. It makes the shame in you deepen.

"I know you've never liked talking about it," he says, almost into the crook of his arm. "And I tried not to insist."

"Except when you did."

"Right, well." He shrugs. "But what I mean is..." He exhales slowly, deflating. "There's ways. If you wanted, we could..."

You twist to look at him in the flesh, not in the mirror.

He looks away from your eyes, like your unreflected attention is too much. "It's up to you. I... will not have a stake in this. If you wanted, we could leave your scar be or... make it go away."

"No," you say immediately, responding to the instinctive gut-clench the very idea gives you. "No, I want to keep it. Or let it heal naturally."

He peers at you cautiously. "Even if it never fully does."

Especially then, you think, and nod.

Slowly, Jake smiles, and sighs. "Alright. If you change your mind, let me know."

Given the relief his smile gives you, you doubt that'll happen. But it's good to know.

 

* * *

 

One morning, in summertime, a milestone.

You wake up late in the morning. It's becoming something of a bad habit; since your life has been taken over by daily chores and errands, something more than the stagnant slide of time in the solitude of your tower, you've gotten into a bad habit of sleeping in. The labor makes you tired, makes your sleep deeper and longer. You still usually stir when Jake nudges you to wakefulness, but without that kind wakeup call, the morning slips away.

Like today, when you rouse slowly from a touch sweeping slowly up and down your side. The days are getting warmer, and you've given up on sleeping in any kind of shirt. Jake's fingertips run along your ribs.

With a low mumble that slips into a yawn, you shift around, moving away from the ticklish touch. It's late. You can just tell by the heat of the air, it's further in the day than your normal wake up.

Before you do anything else, you push the blankets down to cool off. "What," you yawn, turning your face against the pillow.

Jake kisses the back of your neck, lips dry and soft. "I had a look at that list you drew up. Guess what."

You grunt, and pull the covers back up; it's just a little too cool.

"According to your list," he goes on, as if you were being a thoughtful participant in this conversation instead of a lump, "we're done. I finished repairing the doors yesterday, marked that off. Last one. Well, until the big repairs like the wheel." His palm is hot as it slides over the soft skin under your ribs and settles wide and flat against your navel.

Clinging to the dregs of slumber as you are, the words take a moment to sink in.

"Oh," you breathe out. "Huh. I thought we'd never get done."

"Sort of felt that way for a while." He sidles closer, the broad plane of his chest against your back, face nuzzling your hair. He keeps doing that, and it’s rougher these days as the start of a beard starts to darken his already dark and handsome features.

It’s cute, but you think once or twice you've caught him smelling your hair, especially right after your trips to the dreaded bath hole. It's a little weird, but that's sort of Jake himself. His strangeness has decompressed to fill the space you now share. You choose to find it charming.

"Then... what now?"

"Now," Jake says gravely, "we take a bloody day off." He pulls you in, arm wrapping fully around you, pressing against you like you're his favorite pillow. "Weeks of damn work, I've not been run so ragged since my apprenticeship."

"I've never... done anything like this. Work." It's a little humiliating to admit.

"You have. Just not in the shape most would harken as work." His hand finds your arm, follows it until he can tangle his fingers with yours. "Don't need calloused old hands to have an industrious soul."

His own callouses chafe against your skin, and it's wonderful. It feels like erosion, like his hands could work you down and smooth your rough edges away, make you better. You huff out a breath, unavoidably affected by the idea.

He thumbs the knot of your wrists, which has no right to make you squirm the way it does. Nor when he uses that grip you pull your arm back to kiss your knuckles. You think you were once still in his presence, unyielding as stone... or did that all stop from the moment he touched you?

You can separate your life into two parts: before and after the penitent alchemist offered you his hands.

The day won't be postponed indefinitely. Eventually, you will have to get up, feed Halley and Acorn, portion out some food from your modest stores, take care of the essential tasks around the house. But for now, everything can wait while you stretch out in bed, your hands held fast in Jake's, his mouth against your neck, and the two of you dedicating some time to the bed.

 

* * *

 

It's an apothecary house.

It needs an apothecary garden.

Cleaning out the garden takes days, with Jake ripping out overgrown tangled messes of plant and root. The fireplace is busy most nights turning the safer extracted flora into ash, filling the house with a green smell that lingers all through the day.

Then, it's time to replant, and the task of gathering what Jake needs falls on you, oddly enough.

"There's plenty of free range herbs around here," Jake says. "Just have to look around a bit."

The encyclopedia you gave him for Candlenights is your guide. With pertinent pages marked, you venture out to find whatever the forest will provide. Fresh onions, sage, primrose, lavender, verbena, and lemongrass. Under the sun-spotted cover of the trees, in the sloping hills alongside the river, and in stray wandering fields, there are patches of so many plants, it barely seems feasible. But maybe the old alchemists seeded the area like this on purpose.

You walk with the heavy encyclopedia under your arm, flipping through it to compare the diagrams and drawings against what you find.

Halley sniffs around, snout low to the ground, heavy breathing breaking the quiet as he circles you and explores. With no lead and an uncertain rapport, you worry he'll run off and you'll have to explain to Jake that you lost the family dog.

But every time he wanders out of your sight, he returns, big furry body nudging against your leg.

There is the distinct impression hanging over you that you are being chaperoned, not the other way around.

With your satchel and a small trowel, you dig up small clutches of useful herbs and plants, ready to be rehomed in the garden. It's impressive how many you recognize on sight, having learned the names and purposes of plenty from Jake’s tenure as your handmaiden. A tall pale violet umbrella of valerian is not part of your list, but you know it on sight anyway and dig it up to take back.

Hours slip by, and you might find yourself lost in the forest sprawl if not for the river. When the bag slung around your shoulder grows heavy, you hitch it higher and put the river on your left, following it back.

This is a different kind of loneliness, out here. It's solitude without cold stone walls, tasting green and sunlit where before you only knew dust and stagnant water. Even as the sun begins to set, the creeping fear you expect doesn't come.

Halley stands between you and the forest while you follow the riverbank, keen old eyes on the trees, and you feel guarded.

You also feel unfathomably grateful to Grandma English.

In the evening light, your house is lit with amber lamps. One is held in Jake's hand as he stands on the frame around the still-broken waterwheel, his gaze cast out to you. As you approach, he sets his lamp down, reaching out to take your hands and haul you up onto the wooden sill with him.

"There you are," he breathes, smiling. "I was worried you'd gone too far afield."

You shake your head and hand him the satchel. He doesn't even look inside, just pulls it over his shoulder and ushers you into the house.

After you wash up, you find him sitting in the living room, rubbing Halley's ears, murmuring soft praises at the dog. "Good old fellow, you did good."

This keeps happening: your throat clenching with unnameable emotion. It strikes you randomly, stealing your voice until all you can do is wait it out, sitting by Jake's side until the wave passes you by.

Tonight, you eat fireroasted rabbit and parsnips, and sit with your head on Jake's shoulder as you both sort through your findings, breathing in fresh smoke and this new normalcy.

 

* * *

 

Summer is waning around you, the days getting shorter and shorter while the morning air gains more of a bite with each passing day. The window in the loft, which brought a desperately needed breeze into the house, is closed, and each morning you tuck your head down into the blankets, bolstered by Jake's heavy arm around you as even he lazes in bed.

The cold is a reminder. You're trying not to think about it.

At least in that, you have assistance. It's easy to fill your day with work.

Early on in your stay, Jake tries to show you how to skin and clean animals, but it's messy work, and warm and wet in a thoroughly unpleasant way that you're... bad at. Truly awful at.

You've never been _bad_  at anything before, and the third time you bail out of Jake cleaning dinner, there is true irritation in the loud sigh that follows you.

"Alright, then, you are in charge of cooking now," Jake tells you. "I'll clean the game, but you're making the meals."

Later, you try to assist Jake in the garden while he's arranging and replanting everything, and inadvertently set off a crisis after you plant some mint by the fence. That one mint stalk attempts to devour everything, nearly undoing all of Jake’s hard work.

Three hours of gutting out the mint pass, and Jake gives you a pained look.

"I'll take care of the animals instead," you offer up quickly, apologetically.

He presses a kiss against your hair. "You're fine, love."

"You want me to be good at this," you remind him.

"Oh, Dirk. You are, I promise." If his words ring hollow, his smile certainly doesn't.

This division of duties culminates as the river begins to run colder. You have reluctantly become used to the bath hole, until your memories of porcelain tubs feel like a lost dream.

And you _do_  dream of them, sometimes.

In the evening, you feel grimy in a way you cannot stand any longer. Sleeping through it is impossible, so you go to grab a heat tile to drop in the water.

The box of tiles isn't in the kitchen on the sill. You search through the cabinets and among the jars of steeping oils and suspended bundles. Nothing. Only a faint line of dust where the box had been.

It's not like there are other people who could move it. You wander back into the living room, where Jake's laying on the rug on the floor. His body is a careless sprawl, head tilted away from the fire, one arm completely lax. His other hand strokes Halley's ear idly as the dog lays against his side.

You kick the heel of his shoe lightly. "Jake."

"Mmhm," Jake hums, unmoving.

"Where are the tiles? I need a bath."

His face twitches, a little moue of a frown before it smooths out again. "You took one two days ago."

"And?" You tap his shoe again.

With a sigh, Jake rolls his head until he can look up at you. "Dirk. Could you heat up a pot of water and use that?"

You dug out the overgrown space around the chicken coop all day, and felt the sweat tracking down your arms, saw the trails through the dirt that collected on you. You feel like your skin is sandpaper. Pouring all of your unhappiness into it, you stare back at Jake.

Jake turns his head again, and doesn't actually cave. A seed of doubt you've been trying to starve of light and rain suddenly stirs. Only his chest moves with each breath, and his hand across Halley's fur. His hands, adorned with new callouses from these new labors.

You suddenly feel very unsure, and the silence is tense and brittle like glass, not the calm quiet you've been growing used to.

He opens his eyes again just in time to catch you shrinking back. "Dirk," he starts, and it's another damn sigh.

"It's fine, I'll just--"

He sits up while you try to retreat back to the kitchen. "You're using two every time, is the thing!"

"It's getting colder," you say defensively, and just wish you could shut up and go wash.

"And they take time to make." He sounds _tired_ , and it's painful to hear. You regret everything all at once in a hot flush. The amount you've taken for granted is a sudden weight hanging around your neck.

"Dirk," Jake says, reaching to catch the hem of your pants. You could easily pull out of his grip, but make yourself stop, stop panicking.

"I'm sorry," you tell him.

"Don't be. But they are work to make, and you don't know that."

The fact he's making excuses for you stings more, but at least that is something that catches on your attention. It's a handhold over a dark pit you're always trying to avoid.

You take a deep breath, and ask, "Is it hard to learn?"

Jake's eyebrows lift, and he says, "Huh." Slowly, he lowers his gaze to your bare feet, thumb pressing against the bone  of your ankle and rubbing it like a worry stone. "That's an idea. Do you want to?"

 

* * *

 

When the Horror died, your first reaction was not relief. It was fear. It was a fear that the Horror itself never instilled in you.

When it died, when the Winter Crown no longer required a brow to rest on, it begged the question: what were you _for_? In the absence of the Horror, what was Dirk Strider?

Slowly, you're starving that out too.

Autumn is crisp and cool around you as the entire forest is colored richly in yellows and reds before the leaves rattle loose and fall to mulch against the forest floor, leaving only the evergreens and pines as scattered pops of vibrancy. The days wither further and the nights stretch their long indigo wings out. You hang amber lamps around the house to give yourselves another hour when the sun begins setting far too early.

There is something to do every day. Whether that thing gets done is always a surprise. Sometimes, four other things come up and steal your attention. And still other times, you stay in bed.

Alchemy is a slow craft to learn. Or, for you it is. The training at the guildhouse is apparently arduous, but here, Jake teaches you as he works. It's all a labor of hands, to take things apart and imbue them with purpose and power.

Hours you spend at the long wooden table, sometimes with Jake leaning lightly against your back, sometimes along with the faint music of the golden windchime and Jake's distant whistling. Everything from the garden has a path, and you're apparently entrusted with the task of guiding them along.

But you can do it. And the joy Jake gets from seeing you with your hands deep in the craft is worth every moment of hesitation and uncertainty.

When he brings you valerian and chamomile, he hovers over you, reminding you to be careful to separate components, and even draws your hair back out of your eyes. It's getting longer, week by week, and soon you get used to the taut sensation of him tying it back for you.

Other days, Jake shows you his mastery. He dismantles sweetbriars, rose petals and sharp leaves and hooked thorns, never once catching his own skin. He writes out basic recipes, the sorts of things he could craft in his sleep but are new to you, and you bring him hot tea in thanks, bending to kiss him.

He smiles up at you and reaches up to drag his thumb across your cheek, so tender it makes you flush. “You’re getting more freckles,” he murmurs in wonder. “Must be all the sun.”

He lets you have the tiles back, but you use them less as the months grow colder, instead using the big basin in the washroom for a hot soak.

The only time anyone calls you _Your Majesty_  is deep in the night, when you and Jake are kindling warmth in the bed with your bodies, his lips moving against your ear as he asks what the good Prince most desires, delighting in your incoherent replies.

Now, it's an inside joke, a sweet diminutive, meant only for the most private moments of your already pretty private existence. You're no seated royal anymore.

After the work and play, you both curl around each other, tired and sliding into sleep. Jake's nuzzling your hair again. You puff out a laugh.

"What," Jake mouths, just an exhale of sound.

"Nothing," you reply. "Just... thinking."

"At this hour?"

You elbow him lightly, and hum. "This is nice," you tell him, multitudes and magnitudes lurking behind your drowsy voice. "M'glad."

"Glad what? That I soundly moved your body and soul, because I can get behind that idea."

"Not that." You revise: "A little that. But no, like..." You lift your hand from the blankets to wave it, then remember how chilly it is and tuck yourself away again. "All this. The house. I like it."

That quiets Jake for so long, he could very well have succumbed to sleep. It wouldn't surprise or bother you at all.

But he rests his forehead against your shoulder and inhales deeply. "I love you."

You grin against your pillow, fizzling with bubbling warmth. "Go to sleep, Jake."

"It's true though," he mumbles against your skin. "It's true."

 

* * *

 

At some point, Jake realizes you both forgot your birthday, and is sore about it for the entire day. Which seems ridiculous, given how arbitrary it was anyway. Mentioning that only makes Jake frown more, but he agrees to let you pick another day.

Two weeks off, though. Because, as Jake says, "We're coming up on the ass-end of autumn, and I want to take a trip into Skaia to stock up on some things before the frost settles in."

There is no words exchanged, but you both agree on one thing: the Prince of Skaia should not show his face back in the city walls yet. It's too soon.

And the idea of going back there is ice in your bones.

So Jake leaves with Acorn and the cart, promising to be back in a few days.

You are alone in the house.

The worst case scenario is you shriveling up in Jake's absence. It's so easy to imagine. He is your compass north, the new fulcrum of your life, and you expect to fling into disarray or misery without him. You could curse him for expecting so much of you, to stand without him so soon after learning how the hell your legs work.

Instead, Halley lays in bed with you that first night when you're too damn cold to get to sleep, and he _wufs_  in your face in the morning.

And you can do this.

You continue to work through the herbs and flora that need to be steeped and dismantled and ground down and dried. One day, you’ll have the water wheel fixed and use it for grinding, but for now it’s all up to you. There's food to prepare and put in the stone storage box for the coming lean months. And Halley demands more outings than usual, even if you're unwilling to go out too far; if something happened to you, there's no one around to help you.

You sleep, and do it again the next day. It's indescribably lonelier without Jake's company, but you're surviving, and the knowledge you can still do this, can still exist as a single person... helps.

Day three, you feed Halley and yourself, and break out your pigments, clearing a space on the work table.

You sit hunched over the table and watch through the window as the river rushes by, dark with foaming spray across the rocks. There are deer wandering too close to the house, closer than they would if Jake were working outside. The sun continues to set early, and spread its gradient of colors up over the trees.

You paint. Sloppily and unpracticed at first. But you'll get better.

Six days go by before Jake returns. You have paint on your hands when he finds you in the kitchen and kisses you, laughing at how you whip your arms back to avoid touching him.

For his trip, he has plenty to show for it. Sacks of beans and corn and other storable food. Three new heavy blankets. Two chickens and a rooster for the fixed coop, though he jokes they're going to _loathe_  these next few months.

He also has clothes for you. The old garb of your station has grown worn and stained, been ripped both by accident and sometimes on purpose to make it more suitable to life out here. Now he gives you a bundle tied with string, and inside are new shirts and pants. The fine weaving and brocades and satins of your past life are absent. Instead, the clothes are soft, and dyed in pale blues and greens. They bend more easily with your body, and will wash cleaner.

He also has a full bag of cherries, so dark they are nearly black. "Happy birthday."

They burst candy-sweet between your teeth, and he kisses the taste out of your mouth.

What you have to show him in return is a stack of paintings and a lot of pigment stuck around your nails. The best one is the simplest: Halley, his fur described in feathering watercolor swipes of blues and yellows with two coal-black eyes. All clear space with the dog’s shape built from shadows.

"Showoff," he accuses you, smiling.

"It's getting too cold to go out," you explain. "I needed something to do."

"Honestly, that's brilliant. We've got a long winter to come, and anything to not go climbing the walls is going to help."

It's the first time either of you have mentioned it.

Winter.

 

* * *

 

Living in the apothecary house is not unlike stepping through a faerie ring into a new world. It's vibrant and full of colored light and the sound of running water and the rich crunch of loose rock and earth and leaves under your feet. It's breakfast out on the porch and afternoons spent brushing your horse and evenings in a bed that smells like the lavender Jake stuffed into the mattress.

There is space for you to breathe, which is something you didn't know you were lacking until you suddenly weren't.

But all that changes when the first snowfall happens.

The snow isn't more than a flurry, but it lasts for almost two days, and the accumulation is steady and leads a heavy coating all over everything. On some level, it's interesting to see how certain parts of the house and its surroundings are warded against the cold; there is a halo of damp, unfrozen ground around the garden, Acorn's stall, the chicken coop, and the stone steps leading up to the house.

On another, it barely matters, because when you wake up and look outside to see the true arrival of winter, something inside you winds tight and painful. Your deepest breaths feel pinched, and your muscles tense like a bird ready to take off.

However, there is nowhere for you to go. It's all around you, and settles in like a pack of wolves circling.

Winter is _here_ , and the weight around your brow and neck is not lessened by being phantom.

The weight is compounded by guilt as you start to have... trouble. It's trouble like you've never had before, not to your memory. It starts with a resigned lethargy that makes it hard to pull yourself out of bed to start the day and deepens like a yawning chasm into...

At some point, you open your eyes as the bed's weight dips. Jake sits next to you, his palm pressing to your forehead, to your neck. He checks you for signs of illness, a rational explanation for being abed so long.

When there's nothing, his brow furrows with concern, and his hand strokes your hair out of your face. "It's nearly noon."

Time's slipping by. You're doing it again.

"You should eat something," Jake presses.

You nod, and intend to get up in a few more minutes. That weak determination fades seconds after you make the decision, and in the end it's only Jake's insistence you come downstairs that gets you out of bed.

That turns into a habit. A very bad habit. Jake lets you languish in bed far longer in the mornings, presumably leaving you to tend to the animals and get the fire rekindled. Eventually, every day, he coaxes you out and installs you on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket against the cold, your socked feet curled up off the floor.

He's keeping you in sight. You can see the worry in his face as he does busywork, never too far from you. Making him stand vigil over you makes you feel nauseous with shame.

That feeling is smothered in something else. The fear.

You relearned what it meant to be afraid when Jake went out to the Horror, and you are reacquainted with it now as you look out the windows and see the world outside overtaken by snow and cold and deathly stillness.

You are so afraid sometimes, you shake, and Jake sits at your side, tugs your cocoon of blankets loose to slip inside, "You poor shivering gazelle, come here."

His arms close around you and he mutters things about the nip through the cracks in the house, but both of you know what has seized your body. The chill in your heart is far more insidious than the chill in your body.

It's difficult to force yourself to move, like fighting through molasses. Or freezing water as it hardens around you. You lose  _time._

Jake has it worse, you think through the fog. He's so fucking patient with you, you might choke on it. He plies you with small alchemy projects and coaxing you to read some of the texts on the theory. You flip through pages and forget every word as you read it. He asks you about your sketchbook, your paintings, if you've made any more. You shake your head. He fills the wash tub, small as it is, with snow and cracks a heating tile in it. You breath in shudders as he pulls your wet hair back in a loose knot.

There is no power you have ever known that can compete with Jake English and his iron will. You don't want to be the thing that finally bests him.

But by the gods, it's hard.

The only thing that jostles you is the day Jake takes up his bow and goes out into the woods, and comes back with a big pheasant in his gloved hand.

"Something nice for Candlenights, I s'pose," he tells you, and you realize how lost you've been.

That night, you don't sleep much. It's fitful and sporadic, and at your side, Jake snores softly. When all distance is darkness and the night is complete, you crawl out of bed, careful to slip a pillow under Jake's arm for him to hold close.

Every damn step creaks as you sneak downstairs, and worse Halley wakes with a too loud _wuf_  in greeting. You wave your hand fiercely, shushing him.

His ears lower, and he makes another, quieter sound as he pads over to follow you into the kitchen.

With a woven blanket wrapped around your shoulders and Halley's furnace of a body laying mercifully across your feet, you sit at the work table and get to work. No ghosts of winter are going to keep you from doing _something_  for Jake for the holiday, your first in this new home.

 

On the day, you rise when Jake does, bolstered by his silent, relieved smile. The temptation to climb into your corner spot on the sofa is strong, but you hold it at bay. Just for today. At least for today.

Bundling up, you go outside with a brush to give Acorn some of the attention you've been failing to give her. The act of stroking her mane and brushing along her sides and flanks is meditative. Your vision is filled with her dark fur, a solid contrast from the oppressive snowcover around you.

You're out there much longer than you need to be, and it still doesn't feel enough. The last thing you want is for Jake to worry more, though, so you let yourself back in after feeding Acorn a few carrots and checking on the hens.

Jake has the bird cleaned in your absence, and you've relieved you don't have to watch that process. It still makes you squeamish.

He's changed now, and the sight of him is warm like liquor. You've not seen the green handmaiden robes since you left Skaia, but he's kept the taut undershirt with the long sleeves. The rich pine color is layered with a sweater, but its there, and it's a crack in the ice shell that's coated you, the familiar sight.

"Have fun out there?" he asks you, and his voice is quiet. Everything's quiet now, here in the depth of winter.

"Yeah. Can I help with anything?"

"Nope! Unless you want to sit your fine behind on the counter and watch me work." His smile turns sheepish. "There's... not been a lot of opportunity to get you a proper gift, with the house repairs and garden and all. I was hoping a really nice dinner and a bottle of wine I picked up in Skaia would be... something." His face flushes dark. "Stars, I'm so terrible at this."

"It's okay." You sit on the stool pulled from the worktable, and settle in to watch. "It's nearly time to light candles."

"I know. Let me get this started," he says.

Preparing food has been your job around the house. Jake would catch food for meals, but it generally fell to you to make them. It was a natural part of your division of labor. The early months hadn't been... great, since you had so little experience making anything. But, you learned. Everything about this place was a learning experience.

Now, you watch Jake load up the hefty cast iron pot with root vegetables and onions and the pheasant, breaking rosemary and thyme apart with his fingers to coat everything. While it cooks, you both set up your candles in the windows and light them as the sun begins to set.

The house remains illuminated by lamps until dinner's ready and you've eaten. Tradition or not, it's hard to eat by only the light of the fire and two candles, so you fudge it.

"I didn't know you could cook," you tell Jake between bites of soft, aromatic potatoes.

"Gran taught me some very basic recipes. I can cook about seven things, and that's it." He shakes his head. "You'd think it'd be like alchemy in a sense, but... the moment I try to put some topspin on anything, it goes wrong. Better to stick to what I know."

"Better foundation than I had," you say.

"But you're learning. You learn everything so damned fast, Dirk, it's amazing."

It's warming. The entire night is, really. The food, the flickering lights, the wine Jake pours into earthenware mugs after you finish eating, him and his kindness, it's fills you with a heat you've been sorely missing for some time.

After dinner, Jake douses the lamps, and you fetch your gift for him. To you, it's as traditional as the beeswax and flickering wicks.

Jake watches with blatant anticipation as you bundle your blanket around yourself and sit down on the rug by his feet, one hand closed around the neck of a bottle.

"Oh," Jake breathes. "I'm used to this the other way 'round."

"Yeah." You pull the cork out of your bottle and pour a coin-sized drop onto your palm. Like you hoped, it starts to feel warm against your skin as you work it between your fingers. "I've never done this before, so it's not going to be the same, but I'm gonna try."

"What'd you use," he asks, already holding out a hand for you to take.

"Literally one of the basic recipes. Except no ginger, because we don't have any. So... clary sage, cajeput, and valerian?" You lift his hand into your grip by the wrist, first just spreading the oil over his skin. "Ginger would help it permeate more, but... you do so much with your hands, I wanted to do something for that."

"By all means." He grins, and curls his fingers around yours for a second before relaxing into your hold.

You have no expertise here other than what Jake did for you time and time again when he was part of your retinue. Picking up his talents had never been in the forefront of your mind, so what you do now is as unpracticed and novice as can be, but Jake either enjoys it or puts on a good show. His head rests against the seat back, and his eyes shut as you work the oil into his fingers, the flesh under each knuckle, his wrist. You drag it over the back of his hand, following the tendons, and he hums slightly.

It's aimless, but gratifying. Before anything else, you fell in love with the way Jake touched you. He was resolutely fearless and uncaring of station, and had no compunctions about doing what was best for you whether you knew it or not. Sort of the story of your new life, now. In a way, he leads by example.

You massage his hands until the oil is fully worked in, finally just petting his skin idly as you sit there. You trace the rough edges of his palms and fingers, memorizing their shapes, until Jake turns your hands over, grip firm, and pulls you up beside him on the sofa.

There's another half bottle of wine. Foregoing the mugs and leaving them where they are, so far off on the table four feet away, you pass the bottle off for sips right from the mouth as the night wraps fully around the house, held off by the fireplace and the two candles burning down on the sill.

You look out beyond them. It's dark outside. You peer at the long shadows cast by fire and moonlight, and wonder if they seem too pitch, if they truly fit the shapes that cast them.

With effort, you tear your eyes away to find Jake watching you closely.

"Sorry," you murmur.

"It's alright. This is hard. I knew it would be." His arm is a hot weight around you. "It's going to be alright, you know."

You nod and say nothing.

"No, I mean it. Dirk." He puts the bottle on the floor with a _thunk_  and takes your face between both his hands. They are hot, warmth from his body and your oil. "It's over. I promise. I killed that wretched beast myself. The shadows will not grow teeth, winter will get on its merry way in due time, and no one will die." When you numbly nod, he presses your foreheads together tightly. "Nothing more than a splinter is ever going to hurt you again."

By the gods and all their furies, you hope so. You want to just believe it, want the  _belief_  to bleed into you from his touch, to have a transference of conviction until the paralysis that's taken you finally releases.

You think he knows. Imagine he can see it right through your eyes. He shakes you slightly, like that will help, and you nod again, throat stopped around an hard lump.

When he kisses you, it's pure desperation that finds its answer in you. You grip his shoulders and kiss him back, pushing into his space only for him to push back. It's a tender struggle for a moment, each of you trying to climb into the other's spaces. Whoever wins, there's no losing when all you want is the comfort of contact.

Your hand is clenched hard on the back of the sofa, resisting Jake's attempt to push you down valiantly, when he stops to breathe and happens to look away for a moment.

"Candles're almost out," he notes.

You look and see the same; they've both burned down, a shining puddle of their waxes pressing together in the shared dish you put them in.

"Then it's time for bed, I guess," you reply.

Jake wastes no time heaving himself off you and going to fetch the dish. You get up as well, putting the grate in front of the fireplace and grabbing your blanket before following Jake upstairs, the candles lighting the way up to the loft.

With the last wicks burning down on the nightstand, you climb under the covers and mislaid pillows and half-discarded quilt. The suspension dips under your combined weights, creaking slightly against the support posts.

Jake marks your shoulders with his mouth and your hips with his fingers. You dig your nails too hard into his arms and refuse to let him go for a solitary second. Every point where your skin connects feels like his way of convincing you, a tactile plea.

For Candlenights, you let go of your worry. For just tonight.

 

* * *

 

In your little house in the woods in the dead of winter, you don't have much to do outside thinking about said winter.

You try, certainly. You work through more lessons in alchemy, often with Jake working next to you at the table while you muddle through materials and their associations. It's an intricate web to string together: what's good for sleep, but is not good for relaxing the body. What's good for relaxing the body, but not for actual healing. What's good for healing, but weakens the spirit. Everything you learn is interconnected, and at times it’s a pain in the ass to keep straight in your head.

You write some of it down on a blank page in your sketchbook. There's a surprising amount of written word in what's ostensibly meant to be a collection of drawings. Most of the time, you leave the cover closed and hope Jake won't notice.

There is something intimidating about a blank page. An open expanse like snowdrift blanket, and you don't know how to carve anything worthwhile out of it.

So you practice alchemy in slow, ponderous steps. You sketch out vague shapes that refuse to resolve into something good. You give yourself tasks, like refreshing the painted heraldry out on the door or making a slow cooked stew or taking Acorn out to stretch her legs.

This seems to be the rhythm of the season. Jake's much the same. He goes out with his bow and quiver to catch fresh meat. He sews closed the holes in the seams of his clothes, and rehems his pants. He chops firewood, and washes up in the skin.

And on a fairly regular basis, he kisses you with intent, and you have him in bed, or he has you up against the work table. Anything to fill the hours.

Still, outside is a beast. It's a strange inversion of how you remember the Horror; before, the woods were so pitch dark you could barely see as you walked through them. Now, the snow is so crisp and white, it blinds you with its brightness, and you still can barely see.

Far off, Skaia is having its first winter without you. More pertinent, you are having your first winter without Skaia.

 

Late night, you are awake when even Jake's gone to sleep. His head is heavy and warm by your knees as you sit up in bed, looking through the loft window. The moon is out, and the darkness casts from the trees is a flavor darker than the normal night. With a strain settling in at your temple, you squint out at it, trying to see if the darkness is moving at all. Is it looking back at you. Is it waiting.

It's impossible to tell, and even as you desperately want to know the truth, you can't make yourself move. It wouldn't be difficult to get up and find your boots and go see if the shadows speak contrived threats in your head when you approach.

You don't go out, of course. You sit, and make yourself sick from sleeplessness until Jake stirs and finds you groggy but awake.

"Caught something, have we?" His fingers brush your forehead, checking for symptoms. "You look like you haven't slept a wink."

"I haven't." You shut your eyes, but it's dark, and with a jerk you open them again. Your pulse thrums unhappily, fast but shallow. "I don't want to sleep."

"I think you should reconsider," Jake murmurs. "This time of year's nasty. If you're not playing a full hand, you could fall ill."

"Jake," you say, voice rising, out of your grasp like a crepe paper kite snagged in the wind. "I think I should go back to Skaia."

Jake's face falls into something stony and still. "Why's that."

You rub your face tiredly. "Just a precaution. Just to-- this is the first winter without _it_  around, and I just want to be sure it's really gone. What if... it's gathered its strength and comes back for revenge and I'm not _there_. I can't live with myself if someone else has to put on that damn Crown and walk out there. Or, fuck, if it upends the whole ceremony and just devours the first person unlucky enough to cross its path. Just until spring breaks, I should be there. No one else knows how to deal with it."

For the most part, Jake sits there, passively listening to you. But there's something in his eyes, something like a stormwall in the flecks and whirls of his irises.

It would be worrying to face it down, but he banks it, looking down at his lap and sucking in a hard breath before shaking himself. "Alright. You've been spinnin' your wheels all night while I slept alongside. Well, here's some errant sticks jammed in the spokes for you, love. There is not strength for the Horror to gather. It's _dead_  You slew it, I just stole the final blow from you. And in the chance that I'm wrong-- and I'm not, Dirk, I'd stake the entire guildhouse on it-- then we'll have time. If this season never breaks, we'll know something's up. But all we have to do to know it's over and we're all fine is to sit tight a little bit longer." He takes your hands in his, holding them tightly. "That's all there is."

Lifting them, his kisses your knuckles, each one on each hand twice over. Then, he puts them firmly down in your lap, and heaves himself out of bed. "I'm going to fetch you a nap from the cabinet. Don't want you down for the whole day, but this wakefulness is not doing you any favors."

"I'm not tired," you protest.

Jake scoffs in blatant disbelief. "You're the most worn out gentleman the world's ever seen, from the moment I laid eyes on you, Your Majesty. You need rest. And you need the rest of this winter to go by, honestly."

"If we're wrong," you say, "we're sentencing someone to death."

"Don't be dramatic. We'd notice if winter dragged on and outstayed its welcome." He dresses in a robe and boots. "I'm certain we'll be fine. Especially after you take a little soother."

A little soother is a spoonful of something sweet and floral that dissolves in your mouth and crowds you towards sleep. You lay in bed and shut your eyes in defiance of the rising sun.

 

And you lay in bed for a good deal longer than that. On your side, you curl like a comma, holding one pillow under your head.

There, you stay.

You love Jake, and he is genuinely your hero, the one person who looked at you and saw what no one else did and _saved you_. The reality of it has yet to sink in, which is perhaps why you can't handle the idea that it _is_  reality, that it's all over. It's so neat and perfect and everything you ever wanted.

But Jake does not know a true winter. Jake has not been in that place of utter hopelessness and despair. Living in a land made sick, and watching your people's numbers dwindle away with every year, taken by the cold or the crown. He's never sat too close to the elders and listened to them discuss the merits of a rule barring the last heir of any house from taking the sacrifice, and if such a rule would be feasible in a decade's time.

He thinks poorly of Skaia for how they treat you. Sometimes you wonder if it’s even deeper than that, and he considers them almost... sinister. But you know the look of evil more than he does.

The only thing that keeps you here in the apothecary house is the leaden weight of your body in this bed and Jake holding you close every night, begging you to wait a little longer. Just a little longer.

It's suffocating, but as ever, you don't die. You just wait.

The idea of taking Acorn in the middle of the night and riding back to Skaia is becoming so ingrained in your thoughts, it's like a path worn in the rug from being paced over and over. It'd be easy for you. You barely sleep, and when you do it's either alchemic or tenuous and feather light.

It's very, very easy to wait for first light before dressing and going downstairs. The door doesn't even creak anymore since you oiled the hinges months ago. It's no problem to make your way outside.

But here, it all falls apart.

The first thing that catches your attention out here is the roof of the porch. Along it are icicles, the long narrow teeth framing the mouth of the house. The few are knocked out, right over the steps, like a child missing baby teeth. The rest are long and jagged, glinting in the light.

They're making a good deal of noise, since all of them are dripping. Every one releases big drops of water to the floor below, making little concave spots in the snow.

They are melting.

You stumble over to sit on the porch swing and listen to the gentle noise of ice water droplets pattering against the ground.

It's there Jake finds you, shoving the door open in a rush, and visibly calming as he finds you there. Like he suspected all along and worried he was too late.

For a moment, you both just stare at each other, surrounded in the noise.

Winter breaks, and so do you. It's a wound deep in your heart. But it's not fatal and it's not final. It's a lancing of frost from your body, draining out the poison.

Shaking and heaving breaths, you fall apart, bent double over your knees as you let out every fear you've been hiding in your chest, distilled into salt water and pouring out of you as warm hands rub your spine. It hurts, every breath a struggle to drag in through the purging tide, but it's over. You couldn't let yourself believe him until now, but it's over. No Crown will ever weigh you down again, and this new life isn't going to be ripped from your hands the moment you relax your grip.

It's over. Spring has come.

 

* * *

 

And with it, peace.

 

* * *

 

And then.

Skaia is bustling in the midst of autumn. It's just around the time that summer has released its sweltering hold, but the crisp snap of winter's jaws has not begun to loom just yet.

It's the first time you've been within the walls of the kingdom in over a year.

This is another event you never had chance to partake in. When you were young, there was not enough wealth to have a harvest market. It would be impossible for anyone to build up enough stock to hold so much as a potluck let alone lining the thoroughfare of the city with carts and stalls, all selling their goods.

All the guildhouses have tents colored in the emblematic hues of their crests, letting people stroll in to browse their wares. Elsewhere, there are wooden stalls for trinkets and fresh luxury produce and newly dyed cloths and finger food. Even more blankets and mats are laid out with housewives and husbands offering up small hobbyist creations made in their spare time.

Your cart is nowhere near the standards of House Harley. Instead, Jake's parked you both near the edge of the market, closest to the gates. All he has is a table stretched out, and arranged in rows across it are jars and bottles. Each one is adorned with a label you painted yourself, a small picture of its purpose.

He's up front explaining the use of a balm against fever to someone as you sit in the seat of the cart. With your hood up, you are safe here, free to look at the long stretch of the market and idly drag your charcoals against the open page of your book.

"Love, can you hand me a few more naps and two fever balms?" Jake asks when his visitor is gone.

You tuck the charcoal behind your ear and reach behind you to grab the needed wares, passing them up to him. He takes them, adds them to the table, then sits next to you while he waits for the next person to come browse.

"Do you want anything? There's plenty of stalls open and around."

You shrug. "I'll go fetch something to eat in a bit."

"Aren't you well and truly cozy," he accuses warmly. And you are, leaning against the corner of the seat with a pillow up your back, most of your body covered in the cloak.

"It's nice." You return to describing the scene around you in thin, layered lines. Later, you can try translating it into watercolors, when you return home.

"It's alright." He spreads his arms out across the seat, arching his head back in a long stretch. "I might close it up a little early. Been wanting to go look 'round myself. I need to find you a decent birthday gift, and something for Candlenights. I'm not going to be caught off guard again."

You almost tell him you don't need anything else; it's true, but he's not going to listen. And you might have to consider doing the same.

It's a new thing to get used to. Having a life like this. The days keep coming, and they stay now, not lost to grey bleakness like before. At your core, you never expected anything like this to happen to you. This sort of living was for other people. In truth, it was your role to _give_  them those lives.

Now, your role is something altogether different. Smaller, in a way. But bigger, to you.

Someone new comes to pick up your wares at look them over. Jake pats your leg before getting up. "Just another hour, I think. Then we'll wheel over to see Gran."

"No rush," you tell him, and watch him go, your eyes lingering on his back as he stands between you and the world outside.

Next year, you might leave him to go peruse the market yourself. And maybe one day, you'll take turns manning the cart so you can both venture out. The future is wide and blank, not like a lost memory but like potential.

For now, though, you lean your head against the cart seat and shut your eyes, secure and guarded like something worthwhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter art done by the incomparable [cityinthesea](https://cityinthesea.tumblr.com), who contributed a lot to this chapter.
> 
> the ingenuity and horror of the "bath hole" was contributed by [treeprince](https://treeprince.tumblr.com), who actually likes camping and stuff like that.
> 
> the new cover art is thanks to [nightcigale](https://nightcigale.tumblr.com).
> 
> thank you to the Strilonde discord for letting me jam this out for the past month or so, and supporting it. you all are lovely and i'm sorry for monopolizing that jam channel so much.
> 
> you can find me at callmearcturus. come say hi and look at beautiful art.
> 
> next, a break, then a return to TWYCC.


	20. afterword: home

It's the summer of your third year out in the apothecary house. This one is the hottest yet, as if the death of the Horror was a blow against winter itself and brought true heat back into the land.

Here by the river, under the shelter of wood and leaves, it's not too bad. The sun bakes your already dark skin to a richer brown, and fetchingly splatters Dirk's body with new constellations to chart every night.

You think it's a very good look for him. His trousers belted tight around his narrow hips, his back and shoulders gleaming as he works.

His complaints are nearly endless, and you've learned to tune them out. It's hot, but manageable, and really only for this peak month of the year before the summer breaks.

You watch him go through the motions of life out here. His agile fingers wrapping herb bundles in twine, and the corded muscles in his arms as he lifts and moves bottles of tinctures and oils into the sales crates, and arch of his back as he stretches after a long day. He's a Prince no longer, but he's something all the more precious now, something you've successfully, greedily stolen away from the world in your eagerness to free him and see what he'd do outside a gilded cage.

You feel like a voyuer in the walls of your own home sometimes, struck to stillness by simple rituals. How he pinches sugar into your mugs of tea, the way he always twirls the cooking pan in his grip a few times before putting it on the stove, his odd bent-knee perching on the side of Acorn's stall to brush her mane.

Your favorite, deep down, is after his baths. A year ago, you finally brought a tub home from Skaia for Candlenights, the worst kept secret in the house with nothing more than a bow wrapped around the rim as you rolled the damn thing into the washroom. It was like a hundred years of gifts condensed into one, and Dirk was thrilled. Not even in his usual somewhat laconic way, but _thrilled_ , grinning and petting the tub affectionately.

Now, you reap your own rewards, watching Dirk wash up and wrap himself in a soft robe as he sighs deeply, content in a way only hot water can accomplish.

His hair's longer now. You trim it a few times a year, but it always grows quickly back, and you watch him pull it out of his face. Meditative, steady strokes of a carved rosewood comb tame it back, usually in a loose knot at the base of his neck. On days like this, hot and oppressive, he winds it up higher, off his neck for the middling relief.

Watching him feels intimate to the point of intrusion. Touching him, moving with and in him, you could do that in broad daylight and feel nothing but a curl of excitement. This is the first he's ever seemed sacred.

You're so busy making dewy eyes at him, he catches you in the doorway, belting his robe and glaring at you. "What're you staring at?"

It unfoots you, but that's fine. You know how to do the same to him, and smile back. "If I had to wager an answer, I'd say the fairest in all the lands. You're fae-touched, all lovely and frosted with fawn spots."

"Shut up," Dirk replies, curt and tight. "They're freckles, you-- just." Words failing him dramatically, he pushes you aside and stalks away, his ears burning.

You adore him, and try to tell him so. The reaction is much the same, like the string of sentiment is heated wire, liable to burn him. And, in truth, you don't know how else to say it. _I love you_  comes easier now, with practice, but never truly natural. You're much more interested in telling him in other ways, tactile romance languages.

Too often it all gets subsumed into the daily minutiae of your lives. Last you brought him a grip of three enormous orange dahlias, the most extravagant works you've ever seen from nature. When you delivered them, he consulted the encyclopedia and said, "They're not in here. What are they for?"

You, both flustered and impressed at his dedication to his new craft, blubbered something about his favorite color before going to wash up in the river, feeling like a complete lout.

So, declarations are as hit and miss as a drunken bowman. Gifts offered outside holidays don't penetrate his skull. And gestures wind up bundled into the routine of your lives.

You need something else. Something unmistakeable.

 

The search is always going on in the back of your mind. It's like hunting for a key you've never seen to fit a lock you've only caught glimpses of. You're confident it's out there waiting for you, but it takes patience and diligence to find.

As the seasons shift, you take a trip into the city to bring in your stores for sale in the guildhouse. A stall in the market is waiting for you, but Dirk asks to stay home this time, and you frankly don't want to spend the time away from him.

So instead, you trade in your potions and balms and raw ingredients to the guild, taking a stipend from the coffers in recompense. Someone else could do the hawking this year.

While you're there, you take dinner with your gran, because there is no one you trust more in the world. Over roasted duck and honeied yams, you ask her about courting.

The look she gives you over her spectacles is a thousand yards at least. "You're far beyond courting, child. You've gone and bought the farm and settled down with your lordly love, you best not be courting anyone."

"I don't mean like that. Not carousing about." You huff out a sigh. "It's hard to explain. I just want him to know this... is it, you know? But something more debonair than just buying the farm."

She grimaces. "I never married, Jacob. Can't stand the stuff," she says, as if expressing distaste in a drink. "You'll not find any guidance on the matrimonial arts under this roof."

You've known that all your life. "That's not-- I'm not talking about _rings_ , Gran. Frankly, I don't know what I'm talking about. Matrimony seems a little... trite, maybe."

She hums distractedly, in that way that you know means she's thinking it over for you. "Well. There's things other than rings. Best you go looking while you can. Can't grow finery like that out in the garden, can you?"

There is a stubborn part of you that thinks you should be able to. Self-sufficiency is an addiction you've gotten caught up in, and the prospect that you can't provide _everything_ to Dirk rubs you wrong. But Gran's advice is never to be ignored, so you go out to the market next day, and let yourself fall into the flowing stream of browsers and shoppers that drift on invisible currents from place to place, eyes peeled.

A ring is _really_  not what you want. It's traditional, but sours your thoughts. Something too close to the royal vestments, maybe. Or it's simply  _too_  traditional for someone far too extraordinary.

Also, the idea of a ceremony makes your stomach turn. No, that's decidedly not your intention.

The worst part of being bad with words is that you can't figure out what this _thing_  is supposed to say. But it has to say it. You have to get the sentiment out somehow before it grows too large for your body and locks against your ribs.

You look over handcarved toolsets, but discard the idea. Too functional, too easy to sweep aside as a pragmatic thing. There's a stall with richly dyed silks, the sort of finery Dirk once had in abundance, but that gives you the same sour sick feeling. And you find him much more attractive in a soft, loose tunic, or less. You consider a rapier, remembering how much he enjoyed his swordplay once upon a time, but even that's a little too tangled up in your former lives, you don't know if you could handle it.

No silks, no gleaming athames, no temporary indulgences like tea or sweets.

No rings, but still you follow the flow of people and walk past the jewelry stalls. Each one is manned by one of the apprentices at the guild, showing off their wares. Nothing meant to adorn a finger garners your attention, and bracelets wroung from delicate links of silver and gold won't suit the life you keep out in the woods.

A necklace is right out, untenable, unthinkable.

At the end of the row of jewelry stalls is one that isn't peddling wedding accouterments. The apprentice is wearing the same tabard as her fellows, but all her showing is the apparent leftovers of the others' more big ticket items. There are brooches and pins, hoop earrings of all sizes, each devoid of gemstones and instead standing-- hanging-- on the merits of their intricate loops and twists and braids. There is a set of _bracers_  on the table, looking like a stowaway from the Forge more than anything.

She looks up at you when you slow by her stall, her chin resting on her fist, her nails brightly lacquered in ostentatious pinks and purples. "Oh. Wow. Hi there. Old ghost come to haunt the town, huh?"

You bristle at being recognized; most people either don't or are too timid to greet you. "Don't know what you mean, 'cuse me."

"Hey, no no, don't bluster off! I don't mean no harm, just got a mouth that don't stop runnin', _sorry_." She holds up her hands, palms flat. "Please feel free to browse, random stranger I def don't know from Jack."

"Who's Jack?" you ask, thrown.

"Zactly." She beams. "What're you in the market for? Most people paw at the diamonds and sapphires down aways."

"Bit much," you comment quietly, touching your finger to a brooch set with a cloudy blue piece of seaglass. People must be venturing out of the city walls at last, all the way down to the ocean. Even if you try very hard not to think of Skaia most days, even you can't help but feel glad.

"Agreed." She slumps again on her propped arm, watching you. "You gotta have some decent family jewels, but they're not the kind of thing you wear every day, you know?"

That kindles your interest further. "Especially if you're out afield. You need something sturdy, or at least out of the way. But still something... fetching."

Your musings make her grin, and you realize how bloody transparent you're being. "Right. Right, right, right." To your relief, she doesn't make any... remarks. You don't know how you'd handle it if she did. If anyone spoke of him near you.

But she doesn't, instead she pulls a bow out from under her table and opens it. Inside is a fucking _trove_  of doodads and shiny things. "Maybe have a look at the wider catalog, Mr. Stranger. You've got particular tastes."

You do.

Oh, you do.

And nothing is _quite_  perfect, but a few things are close enough that you swallow the nervousness in your throat and ask, "Do you take commissions? Er, discretely."

 

The downside is that you have to make a return trip to Skaia before long.

Dirk's visibly unhappy about seeing you off again so soon. You can see him smother his disappointment. That alone is nearly enough to make you scrap the trip, put it off until the end of autumn.

But, from experience, you know that won't be any better. Dirk's downward swings around winter have lessened with each passing year, but you still are absolutely loathe to leave him alone as the cold sets in. So, it has to be now, and you kiss him apologetically as you saddle up onto Acorn to ride out again.

The winsome jeweler has done her work well, and you tip her graciously as you retrieve your gift. The temptation to just ride straight back home is strong, but Acorn's an old mare and deserves her rest, so you bunk overnight at the guildhouse.

Come morning, you're gone again. A trip for a single item is an extravagance you shouldn't be affording yourself. But you're back well before nightfall, and clearly long before Dirk expected you.

"Where'd you go?" he asks, his fingers smudged with charcoal as he outlines whatever painting he intends next. "Not to Skaia."

"To Skaia. What, should I kept away longer? I didn't mean to rid you of the opportunity to miss me," you tell him, swooping in to kiss him hello.

"Um." He kisses back for a moment, but leans back, brow furrowed. "Jake."

"I promise you, I'm fine. Everything's peaches and cream." It barely assauges his concern, because now he's watching you expectantly, waiting for an explanation.

Which you're now obliged to give him.

It's sitting in the pocket of your coat, far heavier than such a small thing has any right to be. You felt it every inch of the way back home, and it's only more pressing now.

"Right. About that." You hesitate. When you left the order, you were confident with the decision. When you saw the final product, you were even more certain. This was the thing you were looking for. The key to... something esoteric and ridiculous. Not his heart, you already had that. But something important.

You're not good with words.

Dirk sets his charcoal down, and looks surreptiously around for something to clean his hands. They're messy, and he will not touch anything until they're clean.

It's a weird opportunity, and you pull the gift out of your pocket and hold it over your palm for him to see.

What you have for him, what you hope is worthy of this and of him, your retired prince out in the woods, is a hinged comb. Laying across the breadth of your hand, it sits shut, long sturdy ebony teeth resting together. Around them, mounted in the smooth wood, adorning it in colorful greens and lavenders and painted gold, are sprigs of valerian, one bell of nightshade, and curled leaves holding it all together. Poison and balm, old emblems that once reminded you of the guildhouse but now remind you more of the stained glass of your own home, the symbols thrown by the rising sun to grow along the wooden floors.

Dirk's still, his hands awkwardly lifted and curled, halted in the middle of his search. They lower slowly to rest on his lap, fingers upward, relentlessly careful not to touch anything.

You pull the two halves of the comb apart, straighting them into one line of ornately decorated teeth. "Let me," you murmur, and reach up to find the tangle of string Dirk's using to tie his hair back together. It's a small mess, hastily thrown up, and it comes apart with a light tug. So released, his soft pale hair floats loose, framing his face and making him twitch as it tickles his neck.

Armed thusly, you stroke the teeth of the comb through his hair. It catches a few times, coaxing knots through. You tame and brush through over and over, until it's completely tame and you're standing with most of his hair in your grip.

His head is bowed, and each breath is deep and purposeful as he lets you work.

This is familiar. You've done this before, especially when Dirk's gotten his hands deep in work and grown fed up of his hair getting in his face. Being called over to get it out of his way is a regular occurance.

Now, you pull it back and drag the comb through one more time. At the back of his head, you hold his hair as you close the comb on its hinge and cautiously let go. There it obediently stays, the frozen image of intricate flora nestled in place.

Dirk lets out a deep breath and lifts his head. Thoughtlessly, he reachs back, touching the clasped comb with his fingers. His lips part without sound, and he nervously looks up at you.

You smile through the fluttering sensation in your chest. "There. Just something to control that bird's nest of yours."

You're terrible with words, and it's usually a problem. This time, though, Dirk's expression is one of quiet awe. He can feel the weight of what you've brought him, impossible to mistake for anything else.

He looks away for a moment, taking another deep breath, before saying, "I don't want to hear it. I keep asking you to cut my hair, and you never take it short. If I've got a bird's nest, it's your fault."

The relief rushing through you is a flood. "Can't help it. You look so handsome. I did say, you are such a lovely fellow."

His cheeks are flushed, but he stands, and finally goes to wash his hands. "Yeah, yeah. Listen, I wasn't expecting you home for dinner, so you better help me conjure _something_  out of the damn pantry."

"I missed you too, pumpkin," you tell him sweetly, and mean every word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> born out of a conversation about how these boys are the most married of anyone i've ever written, but rings and proposals and stuff don't really fit them. it's a little putting the horse well after the cart to get them married, tbh.
> 
> anyway, this ends the story of this AU, book closed. hope you enjoyed.
> 
> ~~jfc i always have to come up with SOME kind of epilogue to my fucking fics huh~~


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